UC-NRLF 


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IN 

CALIFORNIA 


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[(AROLINElJ.ty.fbSTER 


LITTLE  <:OAED!E5 

OF 

TO-DAY 

BY 

CAROLINE  H.  W.  FOSTER 
(Amy  Elizabeth  Leigh) 


LOS  ANGELES,  CALIFORNIA 

THE  ARROYO  PRESS 

MDCCCCVI 


F7S-4- 


CONTENTS 


Not  Worth  Mentioning  / 

A  House  Party  14 

A  Halt  on  the  Trail  25 

A  Complete  Success  ^ 

How   They  Practiced   Their  Trio  53 

A  Coup-de-Main  61 

A  Little   Company  y^ 

This  Sordid  World  84 


M675732 


NOT  WORTH  MENTIONING. 

SCENE — The  parlor  of  the  Hotel  San  Andres, 
in  Southern  California.  Enter  Porter  carrying 
wraps,  followed  by  Miss  FLORENCE  BRIGHTON, 
BOBO,  her  dog,  and  MR.  and  MRS.  BRIGHTON,  her 
devoted  parents. 

FLORENCE  (sinking  into  nearest  chair).  Oh,  I 
am  so  tired ! 

MRS.  BRIGHTON  (hovering  anxiously  about  her 
daughter).  Take  off  your  hat,  dearie.  Lean 
back !  So !  Now  you  can  rest  while  Papa  makes 
arrangements. 

MR.  BRIGHTON  (briskly).  Yes!  Here,  Mamma 
dear,  here's  a  chair  for  you  by  Florrie.  Now 
I'll  go  confabulate  with  the  clerk.  I'll  have  the 
best  rooms  in  the  house  ready  for  you  in  no 
time!  (Exit  with  porter.) 

FLORENCE  (leaning  back  with  closed  eyes).  I 
shall  hate  this  place.  I  know  it. 

MRS.  BRIGHTON.  Why,  Florence,  how  absurd! 
You  haven't  seen  anything  of  it  yet. 

FLORENCE.    I  hate  it,  just  the  same!    The  smell 


of  orange  blossoms  makes  me  ill.  I  hate  travel 
ing  when  I'm  ill.  I'd  rather  be  at  home  in  bed 
this  minute  f 

MRS.  BRIGHTON.     But  Doctor  Price  said 

FLORENCE.  Oh,  Doctor  Price!  As  if  he  knew 
anything  about  trouble  like  mine.  I  hate  doctors, 
anyway. 

MRS.  BRIGHTON. — said  that  you  required  change 
of— of  scene  and— and  all  that.  Are  you  faint, 
dearie?  You — you  look  so  pale?  I — shall  I  ring 
for  a  doc — for  some  water? 

FLORENCE  (rising).  No!  I'm  all  right.  (Goes 
to  window  followed  by  her  mother).  You  must 
stop  coddling  me,  Mamma.  You'll  have  me  fancy 
ing  myself  a  regular  invalid  pretty  soon.  I'm 
getting  crosser  and  nervouser  every  day;  and  I 
always  abominated  nervous  people!  Why  don't 
you  scold  me?  Why  doesn't  Papa  scold  me? 

MRS.  BRIGHTON  (tenderly).  We're  so  sorry  for 
you,  dear,  we — we  can't. 

FLORENCE    (looking   out    of    window).    Don't, 
Mamma;  please  don't!     I  hate  being  petted!     It! 
makes  me  want  to  cry  (takes  out  handkerchief) 
and) — I — I — don't — want  to  cry!      (Sobs  passion 
ately.) 

MRS.  BRIGHTON.  Therej  there,  dear,  don't  cry! 
I  won't,  I  promise  you  I  won't !  I  don't  pity  you 
a  bit — not  a  bit!  The  experience  will  do  you 
good.  It  will  make  a  woman  of  you  (Stops  sud 
denly  on  catching  sight  of  a  familiar  face  across 
the  street.) 

FLORENCE.  What's  the  matter?  Mamma! 
What  are  you  looking  at? 


MRS.  BRIGHTON  (watching  retreating  figure). 
Nothing!  Nothing  at  all  (leaning  out  window) — 
nothing. 

FLORENCE  (leaning  out  also).  Oh — Oh,  Mam 
ma!  Jack  Wetherell!  (Radiantly.)  He  has 
followed  us! 

MRS.  BRIGHTON.  Not  at  all !  You— you  absurd 
child!  Not  at  all.  Merely  an  odd  resemblance. 

FLORENCE.  I  saw  him!  It's  Jack!  Oh,  why 
didn't  you  tell  me?  Why  didn't  you  bow  to  him, 
or  wave  at  him?  Why— Oh !  Oh!  Oh!  (Sinks 
into  a  chair,  hiding  her  face  in  her  handkerchief.) 
What  am  I  saying?  Mamma,  it  was  he!  It 
was!  Wasn't  it.  Mamma?  Say  that  it  was! 

MRS.  BRIGHTON.  I'm  really  afraid  that  it  was, 
Florrie,  dear.  Be  a  brave  girl,  now.  Don't  give 
way.  I'll  go  tell  papa  not  to  engage  rooms  here. 
(Going.)  He  can  say  that  we've  decided  to  go 
on  further  south. 

FLORENCE.  Mamma,  come  back!  Don't  leave 
me!  Go  south?  (Incoherently.)  Go  further 
south?  Never!  No,  indeed!  After  Jack — I 
won't  go!  How  can  you  be  so — so — just  when 
I'm  beginning  to  like  this  place!  Was  it  Jack? 
Are  you  sure  it  was  Jack?  (Hurries  to  the  win 
dow.)  Oh,  why  didn't  you  tell  me,  so  I  could 
have  had  a  good  look?  What  if  we  are  mis 
taken?  What  if  it  isn't  Jack?  It  would  kill 
me! 

MRS.  BRIGHTON.    Florrie,  what  are  you  saying? 

FLORENCE  (moaning).  Oh,  I  don't  know,  I 
don't  know !  You  make  me  so  nervous,  talking 
about  going  further  south.  I  won't  go !  There ! 


I'm  not  a  baby,  to  be  dragged  off  to  the  ends  of 
the  earth  at  a  minute's  notice.  I — I'm  eighteen! 
(With  a  sudden  assumption  of  dignity.}  Do  you 
suppose  I'll  let  the  mere  sight  of  that  man  spoil 
everything  for  us?  No!  I'm  not  so  selfish  as 
that,  I  hope!  Don't  say  a  word  to  Papa.  Don't 
let  him  him  know  Jack's  here.  -  Of  course  he  will 
leave  at  once.  Probably  he  hadn't  the  faintest 
idea  that  we  were  coming  to  California !  It  has 
been  a  mistake — a  coincidence.  Why,  of  course, 
Mr.  Wetherell  will  leave  the  minute  he  discovers 
we're  here.  Don't  you  think  so,  Mamma? 

MRS.  BRIGHTON.  Er — well,  Florrie,  I'm  sure  I 
hope — It's  really  the  only  thing  he  could  do. 

FLORENCE  (beginning  to  sob).  You  think  so? 
You  really  think  so?  Oh,  Mamma!  Mamma! 
I  shall  die!  You  are  so  trying! 

MRS.  BRIGHTON.    Daughter! 

FLORENCE.  Forgive  me,  Mamma.  I  am  ner 
vous.  Don't  listen  to  me.  I  will  be  sensible  and 
calm.  Yes,  I  will  be  calm.  Now,  Mamma,  you1 
see  I  am  calm.  What  was  I  going  to  say?  Oh, 
yes!  Well!  (Firmly.)  Whether  Ja— whether 
he — whether  Mr.  Wetherell  goes  or  stays,  I  shall 
remain  tranquilly  here.  He  shall  not  drive  us 
from  this  lovely  place.  The  air  here  is  perfect. 
It  will  do  me  lots  of  good.  Why,  I  begin  to 
feel  better  already!  Don't  I  look  better? 

MRS.  BRIGHTON  (nervously).  I  wish  Papa 
would  come. 

FLORENCE.  How  impatient  you  are,  Mamma! 
You  know  it  always  takes  Papa  longer  than  this 
to  arrange  with  the  clerk.  Surely  we  oughn't 


to  grudge  him  the  time  when  he  enjoys  it  so! 
Papa  would  rather  make  a  dicker,  as  he  calls 
it,  than  eat!  Let  him  enjoy  it!  Let  him  get 
what  pleasure  he  can  out  of  this  trip.  If  you 
say  a  word  to  him  about  Jack's  being  here,  I 
shall  never  get  over  it.  I'll  not  even  try  to  get 
well.  Promise  me  you  won't,  Mamma.  Promise ! 

MRS.  BRIGHTON.  But  Florence,  the  audacity 
of  it !  After  all  we've  gone  through !  After  we've 
crossed  the  continent  to  escape  disagreeable  as 
sociations. 

FLORENCE.  "Disagreeable  associations !"  Mamma, 
I  won't  have  Jack  called  a  disagreeable  associa 
tion.  He  isn't!  At  least— he  wasn't!  "Escape 
disagreeable  associations !"  I  hope  you  will  show 
more  spirit,  Mamma.  /  came  here  for  my  health. 
Mr.  John  Wetherell  had  nothing  to  do  with  it — 
absolutely  nothing !  My  health  is  better  already. 

MRS.  BRIGHTON.    We've  only  been  here  an  hour. 

FLORENCE.  And  I  don't  intend  to  let  anything 
force  me  to  leave  here  till  I'm  well — perfectly 
well!  If  you  speak  to  Papa  about  Jack  there 
will  be  a  scene.  I  know  there  will  be.  I  am 
too  nervous  to  bear  a  scene.  I  hate  scenes! 
Promise  me. 

MRS.  BRIGHTON.    But  dearie 

FLORENCE  (clasping  her  arms  about  her  mother's 
neck}.  Promise! 

MRS.  BRIGHTON.    But 

FLORENCE  (kissing  her).    Promise! 

MRS.  BRIGHTON.    Well,  Florrie,  if  I  must. 

MR.  BRIGHTON  (entering ,  beaming).  I've  ar 
ranged  everything  beautifully!  I  flatter  myself 


California  landlords  won't  do  me  up  very  seri 
ously!  Not  if  I  know  myself!  Well,  girlies, 
come  on!  Or,  maybe,  Mamma  had  better  come 
with  me,  Florrie,  while  you  wait  here  till  we  get 
unpacked  and  straightened  up?  What  think? 

MRS.  BRIGHTON  (in  consternation).  Oh,  no; 
that  would  never  do.  By  herself? 

MR.  BRIGHTON.  We'll  leave  Bobo  with  her. 
He'll  take  care  of  her,  won't  you,  my  boy?  By 
George,  the  child's  looking  better  already !  I 
knew  California  would  fix  her!  Wish  I  could 
negotiate  for  a  chunk  of  the  climate  to  take  horns 
with  us!  Flo,  I  haven't  seen  your  eyes  so  bright 
for  a  month,  'pon  my  word! 

FLORENCE.  I  do  feel  better,  but  I'm  rather 
tired.  I'd  better  wait  here,  I  think.  I'll  sit  with 
Bobo  and  drink  in  this  glorious  air.  Come,  Bo- 
bo.  (Leans  out  eagerly.) 

MRS.  BRIGHTON.  Daughter,  I  think  you'd  be 
better  away  from  the  window.  It  will  make  you 
— nervous — to 

MR.  BRIGHTON.  Nervous  ?  Nonsense !  Come 
on !  Let's  get  at  the  trunks  ! 

MRS.  BRIGHTON.  In  a  minute.  (While  MR. 
BRIGHTON  collects  their  wraps)  Now,  Florrie, 
don't  excite  yourself,  dear. 

FLORENCE.  You've  promised!  Not  a  word  to 
Papa!  I'll  sit  here  with  Bobo  (takes  dog  on  her 
lap)  quietly.  I  am  much  better  already.  This 
glorious  air!  How  I  love  the  smell  of  orange 
blossoms!  (Exeunt  MR.  and  MRS.  BRIGHTON. 
FLORENCE  drops  BOBO  and  kneels  upon  chair  by 


the  window  with  elbows  on  the  ledge,  while  she 
looks  down  the  street.  BOBO  whines.) 

FLORENCE.  Be  still,  Bobo !  Such  a  street !  Why 
can't  people  build  their  streets  straight?  I  can't 
see  around  curves  !  (She  walks  the  room's  length 
and  returns  to  window.)  Come  here,  Bobo! 
Come  here !  (Sits  sidewise  on  chair  with  dog  on 
her  lap.)  Now,  Bobo,  I  want  you  to  go  to  sleep. 
.  .  .  It  was  certainly  Jack.  Dear,  darling, 
darlingest  Jack!  To  follow  me  here!  I  hope 
Papa  won't  find  it  out  till  we've  made  up! 
O-o-oh,  how  lovely  to  make  up!  Papa  will  be 
furious!  Oh,  Bobo,  I  am  so  happy — and  so 
miserable!  He'll  call  Jack  everything!  Well, 
I'll  stand  by  him.  Dear  Jack!  I'm  not  afraid 
of  Papa,  nor  of  the  whole  world  when  I  have 
Jack.  (Pause.)  What  if  it  wasn't  Jack?  What 

if (Drops  the  dog,  kneels  on  chair  as  before, 

looking  down  the  street.) 

(Enter  MR.  JACK  WETIIERELL.) 

MR.  WETHERELL  (standing  on  threshold).  Flor 
ence! 

FLORENCE  (starting  ecstatically  to  meet  him). 
Jee — ack!  (stopping  midway)  Mr.  Wetherell! 

JACK  (to  the  ceiling).  Calls  me  Mr.  Wetherell! 
After  I've  crossed  the  continent,  and  given  up 
my  position,  and  pawned  my  dress  suit  and  spent 
all  my  savings  to  come  to  her;  she  calls  me  Mr. 
Wetherell!  (Turns  as  if  to  depart.) 

FLORENCE.     Er — er — you're  not  going  f 

JACK  (looking  over  his  shoulder).  Why  should 
I  stay  ?  You  have  frozen  me  with  a  glance !  That 


"Mr.  Wetherell"  clangs  like  a  death  knell !  Yes, 
I  will  go !  Let  me  go ! 

FLORENCE.  Oh,  well,  certainly!  Good,  bye! 
Come  here,  Bobo,  don't  disturb  Mr.  Wetherell; 
He's  in  a  hurry  to  get  away.  Come  here! 

JACK.  Hullo,  Bobo,  old  fellow!  You  here? 
You're  glad  to  see  me,  anyway!  You  can  wag 
your  tail  at  me  and  treat  me  with  decent  cor 
diality,  but  she  won't.  She  (brokenly)  calls  me 
Mr.  Wetherell !  (stoops  to  pat  the  dog)  Mis—ter 
Wetherell ! 

FLORENCE  (stooping  to  pat  BOBO  too).  Forgive 
me,  Jack;  it  was  unkind. 

JACK.  Unkind?  It  was  simply  inquisitorial. 
It  cut  me  to— to  the  heart.  After  I've  been  fol 
lowing  you  and  famishing  for  you  for  a  whole 
week — the  longest  week  on  record ! 

FLORENCE.     Has  it  seemed  long? 

JACK.  Long?  Eternity's  a  mild  word  for  it! 
FLORENCE  (softly).  Are  you  glad  it's  ended? 

JACK.  Don't  speak  to  me  like  that!  Don't 
look  at  me  like  that!  I  can't  stand  it! 

FLORENCE  (looking  like  that  again).    Jack! 

JACK.    Flo!     (Tableau.) 

(Enter  MR.  BRIGHTON.) 

MR.    BRIGHTON.    Eh?    How?       Who?    You!! 

JACK  (meekly).    Yes,  it's  me. 

MR.  BRIGHTON  (thundering).  What  does  this 
mean?  Can  I  believe  my  eyes?  Wh-h-hat  are 
you  doing,  sir? 

JACK  (not  quite  so  meekly.)  Your  eyes  do  not 
deceive  you,  sir.  I  am — I — that  is,  I  was 

8 


MR.  BRIGHTON.    Kissing  my  daughter! 

JACK.     Kissing  my  fiancee. 

MR.  BRIGHTON.  Florence!  Come  here!  Look 
at  me. 

FLORENCE  (catching  her  breath  and  clutching 
JACK'S  hand,  while  she  looks  at  the  carpet.) 
Er— Sir? 

MR.  BRIGHTON.    Look  at  me! 

FLORENCE  (feebly).    I— I  don't  want  to! 

MR.  BRIGHTON.  Thank  heaven,  your  poor  moth 
er  is  spared  this  sight!  My  poor,  foolish  little 
girl !  This  man  has  only  to  put  in  his  appearance 
and  you  drop  into  his  arms! 

FLORENCE.  I  didn't!  Why,  Papa!  Did  I, 
Jack? 

JACK  (eagerly).  No,  indeed  she  didn't!  I 
give  you  my  word,  Mr.  Brighton,  she  received  me 
with  icy  coldness  at  first.  She  called  me  (quite 
overcome) — I  will  not  tell  you  what  she  called 
me. 

MR.  BRIGHTON.  A  villain,  no  doubt!  And  so 
you  are,  sir !  A  villain !  A — 

FLORENCE.  Papa,  I  implore  you  not  to  be  vio 
lent.  I— Jack 

MR.  BRIGHTON.  Florrie,  you  told  me  yourself 
that  he  had  deceived  you. 

JACK.    Flo,  did  you  say  that? 

FLORENCE.  Well,  Jack,  you  know  you  did  fib 
to  me  about  Maude  Henderson. 

MR.  BRIGHTON.  And  that  he  had  trampled  on 
your  heart. 

JACK,    oh,  Florence! 


MR.  BRIGHTON.  And  she  declared  that  she 
never  wanted  to  see  your  face  again. 

JACK.  Oh,  well,  if  you  feel  like  that,  Miss 
Brighton 

FLORENCE  (clinging  to  both  men').  But,  Jack — 
but  Papa,  dearest,  I — he — you  see,  I — I  have 
changed  my  mind!  Oh,  please — please 

MR.  BRIGHTON.  And  you  were  sick  in  bed  for 
five  days  and  we  were  all  half  crazy,  while  this 
man  went  off  on  a  fishing  excursion ! 

JACK.  She  drove  me  from  her.  I  was  desper 
ate  !  She  returned  the  ring.  She  told  me  to  give 
it  to 

FLORENCE.  But,  Jack,  dear,  I'll  take  the  ring 
back.  I  want  it  back! 

MR.  BRIGHTON.  She  begged  me  to  take  her 
away — anywhere  from  the  home  you  had  blighted, 
sir;  blighted!  And  I  brought  her  here;  and 
you 

JACK.  Yes,  I  came  after  her.  I  couldn't  stand 
it! 

FLORENCE.  Neither  could  I !  (Embracing 
JACK  precipitately.) 

MRS.  BRIGHTON  (coming  along  the  hall).  Papa! 
Florence ! 

MR.  BRIGHTON.  Great  Scott !  Here  comes  your 
mother ! 

(Enter  MRS.  BRIGHTON.) 

MRS.  BRIGHTON.  What's  the  matter.  What 
kept  you  so  long?  Is  Florrie  ill?  I  waited  un 
til — (sees  JACK) — O-o-o-o-o-o!  You! 

MR.    BRIGHTON.     There;    there,    Mamma     dear, 


10 


don't  get  excited.  It's  all  right!  Why,  you  look 
as  if  he  were  a  ghost!  It's  all  right,  I  give  you 
my  word.  I've  had  a  talk  with  them  and  they've 
made  it  all  up — haven't  you,  children? 

THE  CHILDREN  (eagerly).  Yes,  yes;  we've 
made  it  all  up ! 

MR.  BRIGHTON.  And  they're  good  friends  again ; 
better  than  ever;  and  I've  given  'em  my  paternal 
benediction.  It  was  only  a  little  sort  of  a  mild 
little — er — misunderstanding,  not  worth  mention 
ing.  'Pon  my  word !  Was  it,  children  ? 

THE  CHILDREN.  No;  no,  indeed;  not  worth 
mentioning ! 

MR.  BRIGHTON.  And  just  as  you  came  in,  Jack 
was  going  to  give  Florrie  back  the  ring.  Go 
ahead,  Jack!  Where's  the  ring? 

JACK  (after  a  painful  pause).  Well,  you  see, 
I— I 

FLORENCE  (fiercely).    You  haven't  given  it  to — 

JACK.  No,  no!  Of  course  not!  Certainly 
not!  I — well  (smiling  miserably),  to  tell  you 
the  truth,  I — you  see^  I  came  away  rather  unex 
pectedly,  and — er 

MR.  BRIGHTON.  Just  so!  Oh,  well!  Never 
mind! 

FLORENCE.  But  /  mind!  Jack  Wetherell,  I 
want  to  know  what  you  did  with  my — with  that 
ring? 

JACK.  Well,  Flo,  I  was  going  to  explain.  You 
see,  I  came  away  so  unexpectedly,  and  I — well,  I 
needed — that  is,  I  was  a  little  short,  so  to  speak — 

11 


FLORENCE.  Short?  Short?  What  do  you  mean 
by  short? 

JACK.  Well,  Flo,  I  mean— it  was  like  this. 
Your  father,  being  a  business  man,  will  under 
stand  it.  It's  a  common  business  transaction, 
but— 

FLORENCE.  You  sold  it!  Oh,  Mamma!  Mam 
ma! 

MRS.  BRIGHTON.    My  poor,  poor  child ! 

JACK.  No,  Florence,  I  didn't;  indeed,  indeed, 
I  didn't!  I  (reluctantly)  I  only  pawned  it! 
(apologetically.)  I  had  to  do  it  or  lose  you! 

MR.  BRIGHTON.  Just  so!  Quite  right!  Great 
scheme!  Florence,  stop  crying!  Mamma,  do  be 
reasonable!  Think  how  poor  we  were  when  we 
were  young,  and  what  furious  rows  we  had. 
What's  the  use?  Mamma,  you  always  liked  Jack, 
you  know  you  did! 

MRS.  BRIGHTON.  No-o;  not  since  Florrie  told 
me  how 

JACK.  Oh,  Mrs.  Brighton,  Florrie  has  forgiven 
everything,  haven't  you,  Flo? 

FLORENCE.  It  was  all  my  fault,  Mamma.  Real 
ly  and  truly!  I  was  an  unreasonable,  jealous, 
hateful,  suspicious 

JACK.  Come,  now,  I  won't  have  you  calling 
my  sweetheart  such  names ! 

MR.  BRIGHTON.  That's  right,  Jack!  Don't  let 
your  sweetheart  malign  my  daughter  that  way! 

FLORENCE.  Well,  I'll  stop  if  Mamma  will  be 
sensible  and  forgive  everything  and  never  mention 
it  again. 

12 


MRS.  BRIGHTON.    But  Florrie,  you  said 

FLORENCE  (clasping  her  mother's  neck).    Prom 
ise! 

Mas.  BRIGHTON.    But 

FLORENCE  (showering  kisses).    Promise  1 
MRS.  BRIGHTON.    Oh,  well,  I  suppose  I  must! 


13 


A  HOUSE  PARTY. 

CHARACTERS. 

MRS.  PERRY  WILDMERE,  hostess. 
KATHERINE  ROGERS,        \ 
TOM  SEVERANCE,  j 

FRED  MATTHEWS,  ( 

CAPTAIN  TRUE,  }  Guests. 

MR.  VANCE, 
MR.  MERRIVALE, 
And  six  young  ladies, 

SCENE  :  The  wide  south  veranda  of  Mrs.  Perry 
Wildmere's  cottage  at  Santa- Juanita-by-the-Sea. 
Upon  a  wicker  couch,  in  a  fragrant  recess,  shaded 
by  a  bloom-laden  honeysuckle,  KATHERINE  ROGERS 
is  lying,  half  asleep.  Two  books  are  upon  her 
lap,  a  bit  of  drawn-work  and  a  glass  of  iced  lem 
onade  on  the  bamboo  table  beside  her.  Some  one 
trips  briskly  along  the  gravel  path  outside,  as 
cends  nimbly  the  steps  at  the  south  entrance  and 
approaches  her  retreat;  but  she  does  not  stir  nor 
open  an  eye  until  a  vigorous  "hallo"  startles  her 
from  her  delicious  lethargy. 

TIME — 10  o'clock  in  the  morning. 

KATHERINE      (looking    up).    Oh,     you!      Go 

14 


away!  Men  aren't  allowed  on  this  porch  before 
luncheon. 

TOM  SEVERANCE.  "Go  away!" — I  won't  go 
away!  I've  been  hunting  for  you  everywhere — 
down  on  the  beach,  and  up  the  canyon,  and  along 
the  walk 

KATHERINE.  Well,  look  for  me  in  some  of 
those  places  tomorrow  and  I'll  be  there.  I'm  not 
there  today,  because  I'm  tired  of  people,  and — 
Oh,  please  go  away,  cousin  Tom! 

TOM.  You're  cross!  But  I  like  you  when 
you're  cross.  I'll  not  be  scared  off  by  a  little 
scolding.  (Moves  lemonade  and  drawn-work  to 
porch  rail  and  perches  upon  table.)  Now  fire 
away!  I'm  fixed. 

KATHERINE.  You  won't  go?  Very  well,  then! 
Don't  expect  me  to  talk  to  you!  (Screens  her 
face  behind  a  book.)  I'll  not  say  another  word. 

TOM.  That  suits  me  perfectly,  too.  I  want  a 
chance  to  talk  to  you  without  interruption.  Every 
time  I  try  to  talk  seriously  to  you,  you  suppress 
me.  I'm  tired  being  suppressed.  I'll  not  be  sup 
pressed!  You  seem  to  think,  just  because  I'm 
your  cousin,  that  I  have  no 

KATHERINE  (hastily).  Oh,  well,  if  you're  bound 
to  stay,  I  suppose  I  can't  prevent  you !  You  shall 
make  yourself  useful.  Go  bring  me  another  cush 
ion. 

TOM.  Another  cushion!  Why,  you  have  at 
least  five  already.  One,  two,  three,  four 

KATHERINE.  Yes;  but — but  this  elbow  isn't 
quite  comfortable.  I  must  have  one  more. 

TOM.     O.  K.,  Kathie;  we'll  not  quarrel  about 

15 


it.  She  shall  have  her  cushion.  I  fly!  (Van 
ishes  around  corner.) 

FRED  MATTHEWS  (approaching  R.).  Tiddy-um, 
tiddy-up,  tiddy-um-tum-tum !  (Simulating  sur 
prise.)  Why — you  don't  mean  to  say  it's  you! 
Thought  you  were  down  bathing  with  the  rest 
of  the  girls.  By  Jove!  What  luck!  I've  just 
been  wanting  to  see  you. 

KATHERINE  (crossly).    Oh,  you  have! 

FRED.  Yes !  I've  been — you  see,  I've  been  try 
ing  for  a  week  to 

KATHERINE.  Oh,  Mr.  Matthews,  I'm  so  thirsty, 
and  that  lemonade  is  so  flat.  Suppose  you  bring 
a  pitcher  of  ice  water? 

FRED.    Let  me  say  a  few 

KATHERINE,  I  can't  wait!  I'm  famishing!  I 
was  just  hoping  that  some  one  would  come  to 
my  relief.  Please  hurry!  You  can  talk  as  long 
as  you  like,  afterward. 

FRED.  You  mean  it?  No  fooling?  You  prom 
ise  to  listen?  (KATHERINE  nods  affirmatively.) 
Good!  I'll  be  back  in  no  time!  (Exit  R. 
KATHERINE  smiles  mischievously,  re-arranges  her 
cushions  and  her  skirts  and  begins  energetically 
upon  her  drawn-work,  humming,  meanwhile,  a 
sentimental  Spanish  song.  Enter  breathlessly  R., 
Fred  with  ice  water,  L.,  Tom  with  cushion.  They 
exchange  glares.) 

KATHERINE  (sweetly).  Oh,  here  you  are!  Two 
— er— ministering  angels!  (Laughing.)  So 
good  of  you  !  How  amiable  you  look ! 

TOM   (sulkily).    Here's  your  cushion. 

FRED  (gloomily).    Here's  your  ice  water. 

16 


KATHERINE.    Oh,  thank  you!    So  kind 

BOTH   (eagerly).    Let  me  assist  you! 

KATHERINE  (tucking  the  cushion  under  her 
shoulder).  Never  mind!  I'm  blissfully  comfort 
able  now;  at  least  I  shall  be  after  I've  had  some 
ice  water.  I'll  take  it  through  a  straw,  I  think; 
just  get  that  one  from  the  lemonade,  Tom.  I'm 
really  afraid  to  move.  I  shall  never  achieve  such 
a  comfortable  pose  again — never! 

TOM.     Here's  your  straw. 

FRED.  Here's  your  ice  water.  (They  stand 
anxiously  while  she  sips.) 

KATHERINE.  Sit  down,  do!  (They  look  around 
dubiously.)  Sorry  there's  no  room  on  this 
couch ;  but  sit  down  somewhere !  You — you 
make  me  nervous,  eyeing  me  like  a  couple  of — of 
— what  shall  I  say? 

FRED  (dolefully).    I'm  sure  I  don't  know. 

TOM.  You  do  look  kind  of  down  in  the  mouth, 
Matthews;  brace  up! 

(ToM  perches  upon  table  as  before.  FRED  takes 
the  floor  and  embraces  his  knees.  Dead  silence 
ensues. ) 

KATHERINE.  Now  talk!  Didn't  you  both  tell 
me  you  wanted  to  talk?  Why  don't  you  talk? 

FRED.  I — I  don't  seem  to  feel  as  much  like  it 
as — as  I  did,  some  way  or  other.  I 

TOM.  I — you — er — what  have  you  been  read 
ing,  Miss  Rogers? 

KATHERINE.  Well,  I  brought  out  Rossetti  and 
"Three  Men  in  a  Boat"  and  my  needle- work,  just 
to  make  me  feel  as  if  I  had  a  wee  bit  of  mind  and 
a  tiny  scrap  of  energy  left;  but — oh,  here  comes 

17 


Captain  True!  How  nice!  He  is  so  entertain 
ing!  He  always  feels  like  talking. 

TOM.  Yes,  he  always  does;  whether  people 
feel  like  listening  or  not! 

FRED.  Queer,  isn't  it,  now,  the  way  that  man 
dogs  our  steps?  I  never  get  within  a  block  of 
Miss  Rogers  before  True  turns  up.  (Plaintive 
ly.)  It  would  seem  so  kind  of  nice,  you  know, 
if  I  could,  just  for  once 

KATHERINE.     Sh-h-h,  he'll  hear  you! 

(CAPTAIN  TRUE  approaches  R.,  twirling  his 
cane,  while  the  two  men  scoivl  and  KATHERINE 
smiles  a  greeting.) 

CAPTAIN  TRUE.  Hello  !  How's  this  ?  Thought 
everybody  was  down  at  the  beach !  How  cool 
and  contented  you  people  look! 

KATHERINE.  Yes.  We're  having  such  a  charm 
ing  time;  aren't  we? 

TOM  (dubiously).     Ye-es.     Oh,  yes ! 

FRED  (wearily).  Oh,  yes!  Charming!  Yes, 
indeed ! 

CAPTAIN  TRUE.  By  Jove !  Matthews  there  re 
minds  me  of  the  way  we  used  to  sit  around  the 
camp-fires  when  I  was  in  active  service  out  on 
the  frontier.  Beats  sitting  on  a  chair  all  to  pieces 
— don't  it,  Freddie,  my  boy?  (Sits  on  floor  be 
side  FRED.)  I  remember  one  night " 

TOM   (murmuring).     Spare  us,  good  Lord! 

CAPTAIN  TRUE.    What  say? 

KATHERINE.  Don't  interrupt  the  Captain,  Tom ! 
Go  on,  Captain.  Your  stories  are  always  so — so 
thrilling!  It's  delicious  to  lounge  on  a  shady 
porch  and  sip  ice  water  and  smell  honeysuckles 

18 


and  have  one's  blood  curdled!  Go  on!  Tell  us 
a  real  exciting  one — a  nice  long  one,  all  about 
Indians  and  scouts  and — things! 

CAPTAIN  TRUE  (complacently}.  Well,  Miss 
Rogers,  I  have  had  some  thrilling  experiences. 
Mine  has  been  a  varied  career.  As  I  was  going 
to  say,  I  remember  one  night — the  deuce!  I — 
I've  forgotten  what  I  remember. 

TOM          ) 

(     Too  bad! 
FRED         [ 

CAPTAIN  TRUE  (irritably).  I — I'm  not  used  to 
being  interrupted  when  I  begin  to — to  talk.  It — 
it  rattles  me,  by  Jove! 

TOM.  Do  try  and  think,  Captain.  Was  it  the 
one  about  the  messenger  that  dropped  dead? 

FRED.  Or  the  one  about  the  swarm  of  red 
devils  that  you  obliterated  single-handed? 

CAPTAIN  TRUE.  Ton  my  word!  You  fel 
lows 

A  VOICE  (from  within).    I  say,  Miss  Rogers? 

KATHERINE  (eagerly).  Well?  Is  that  you, 
Mr.  Vance? 

MR.  VANCE.  Si,  Senorita!  I'm  just  waked  up. 
I  wanted  to  ask  if  you'll  teach  me  the  rest  of 
that  song  this  morning?  Shall  I  bring  down  my 
guitar? 

KATHERINE.    Yes,   do ! 

TOM.  It  seems  to  me  Mrs.  Wildmere's  house 
party  is  in  rather  a  disjointed  state  this  morn 
ing.  Last  night  we  agreed  to  meet  at  ten  on  the 
beach.  There  are  just  five  men  in  the  house, 
and  here  are  four  of  us!  What  a  lively  time 


19 


the  girls  must  be  having! 

FRED  (who  has  lapsed  into  a  state  of  profound 
melancholy).  Mrs.  Wildmere  will  be  wrathy; 
see  if  she  isn't! 

CAPTAIN  TRUE.  Hadn't  you  fellows  better  go 
down  to  the  beach  and  make  your  peace? 

TOM.    It's  too  hot. 

FRED.    The  water's  too  cold. 

CAPTAIN  TRUE.  Let's  see.  What  man  have 
they  got?  Old  Merrivale,  by  Jove!  Fancy  old 
Merrivale  with  six  girls  to  float! 

OMNES    (hilariously).    Six  girls!    Oh! 

(Enter  MR.  VANCE  in  picturesque  summer  of 
tire,  with  guitar,  which  he  thrums  while  he  sing* 
the  opening  lines  of  a  Spanish  song.) 

MR.  VANCE.    "Adonde  ira,  veloz  y  fatigada.  La 

golondrina,   que  de "    Let's   see,  what  conies 

next? 

KATHERINE.  Bravo!  You're  doing  beautiful 
ly! 

MR.  VANCE.  Am  I?  How  do  I  get  the  ac 
cent?  "Veloz  y  fatigada?"  Move  over!  Expect 
me  to  sit  on  the  ragged  edge  of  this  couch  and 
play  with  the  grace  of  a  Spanish  guitarristaf 
(KATHERINE  smilingly  makes  room  for  him.) 
Now  I'll  begin  again.  (Thrums.)  "Adonde  ira" 
— What  are  you  fellows  looking  like  that  for? 
Don't  you  enjoy  music? 

KATHERINE.  Why,  they  love  it!  Of  course 
they  do!  Don't  you? 

THE  FELLOWS.  Oh,  yes;  yes,  certainly.  Of 
course  we  do!  We  love  it! 


20 


KATHERINE.  You  don't  get  that  chord  exactly 
right  Let  me  show  you.  (Leans  over  the  gui 
tar.)  Your  second  finger  goes  here — so!  Now 
try  again. 

MR.   VANCE    (trying  again,  while   the  fellows 

mutter    indignant    aside).     "Adonde    ira,    velos 
tt 

KATHERINE.  I'll  tell  you  what,  Mr.  Vance. 
Our  music  disturbs  the  gentlemen.  I  don't  be 
lieve  they  are  so  very  fond  of  music,  after  all ! 
Suppose  we  go  round  to  the  west  porch,  where 
we — where  they  won't  be  disturbed? 

MR.  VANCE.  Good  idea !  I  hate  trying  to  sing 
where  people  are  talking.  Let's  go. 

THE  FELLOWS.  Oh,  no !  Don't  go !  You  needn't 
go! 

KATHERINE  (sweetly).  We  couldn't  think  of 
disturbing  you  so!  No,  indeed!  Good-bye! 

(Exit  with  MR.  VANCE  and  the  guitar.) 

TOM  (savagely).    Well,  I  like  that! 

FRED  (mournfully).  Gives  us  the  cold  shake, 
by  George! 

CAPTAIN  TRUE.  What  a  consummate  bore  that 
fellow  Vance  is!  By  Jove!  a  consummate  bore! 

TOM.  That's  why  I  hate  a  house  party !  You're 
forced  to  associate  intimately  with  people  you — 

FRED.    Great  Scott!    Here  come  the  girls! 

(Up  the  steps  at  the  south  entrance  comes  the 
remainder  of  MRS.  WILDMERE'S  party  \  the  six 
gtrls  walking  by  twos,  MRS.  WILDMERE  and  OLD 
MERRIVALE — very  red  in  the  face  from  his  recent 
exertions — bringing  up  the  rear.  The  fellows  fid 
get  guiltily  and  keep  silent,  anticipating  MRS. 

21 


WILDMERE'S  reproaches.) 

MRS.  WILDMERE  (shaking  her  parasol  at  them). 
There  they  are !  Traitors  !  Reprobates  !  You've 
missed  a  glorious  dip!  The  water  was  perfect! 
Perfect !  The  girls  are  furious  with  you !  Mr. 
Merrivale  is  the  only  one  who  approves  of  you. 
He  has  had  a  glorious  time !  We  all  adore  Mr. 
Merrivale.  Don't  we,  girls? 

TOM.  Well,  you  see,  Mrs.  Wildmere,  I  had 
such  a  headache 

FRED.  And  I  woke  with  a  touch  of  rheuma 
tism  this  morning,  so  I  really  didn't  dare — 

MRS.  WILDMERE.  And  I  suppose  poor  Captain 
True  was  seriously  indisposed,  too?  You  do  look 
rather  forlorn,  all  three  of  you.  You  poor  things ! 
And  where's  Katherine? 

TOM  (significantly).  'Round  on  the  west  porch 
— with  Vance. 

FRED    (solemnly).     Playing  the  guitar. 

CAPTAIN  TRUE.  And  singing  a  sentimental 
Spanish  song. 

MRS.  WILDMERE.  How  very  nice!  I  think  I'll 
go  around  and  listen.  Suppose  we  all  go — and 
surprise  them. 

TOM.  What  a  lark!  Mrs.  Wildmere,  you're 
a 

FRED  (smiling  once  more).  A  great  scheme. 
Come  on! 

CAPTAIN  TRUE.     By  Jove ! 

CHORUS   (jubilate).    Suppose  we  do! 

(They  go  off  laughing,  each  of  the  young  men 
escorting  two  girls,  MR.  MERRIVALE  and  MRS. 
WILDMERE  leading  the  way.) 


22 


II. 


SCENE  :  The  west  porch,  an  al  fresco  drawing- 
room  hung  with  scented  East  Indian  tatties,  car 
peted  with  Turkish  rugs  and  furnished  with  a 
capacious  hammock,  low  lounging  chairs  and  the 
indispensable  cushions.  VANCE  occupies  the  ham 
mock,  which  swings  gently,  keeping  time  to  the 
music  of  his  guitar.  KATHERINE  sits  in  a  high- 
backed  rocker,  with  half -closed  eyes  and  her 
hands  clasped  behind  her  head,  while  she  sings 
the  final  words  of  that  Spanish  song. 

KATHERINE  (softly).  "Tambien  yo  estoy,  en 
la  region  perdido  O  cielo  santo!  y  sin  poder  vo- 
lar!" 

VANCE  (after  a  pause).  Lovely!  Lovely!  You 
put  your  soul  into  it,  Katherine.  I — I  feel  it! 

It — I  could  listen  to  your  singing  forever !  I 

(He  stops  abruptly,  lays  aside  his  guitar,  and,  ris 
ing,  studies  her  face.) 

KATHERINE  (looking  up  at  him).    Yes? 

VANCE.  I  wish  I  knew— I  wish  I  could— if 
I  dared 

KATHERINE.     If  you  dared? 

VANCE.  Dearest!  (At  this  inopportune  mo 
ment  enter  precipitately  MRS.  WILDMERE  and  her 
party.  VANCE  makes  a  gesture  of  rage,  strides 
across  the  ve'randa,  and  turns  his  back  to  them 
all.) 

MRS.  WILDMERE  (gaily).  Here  we  are!  We've 
come  to  hear  the  music!  Why,  Mr.  Vance, 
where's  your  guitar? 

CAPTAIN  TRUE.  What's  the  matter  with  Vance  ? 
Eh? 

23 


TOM  SEVERANCE.  I  hope  we're  not  intruding. 
Eh,  Vance? 

VANCE  (addressing  the  tatties').  Oh,  no;  not 
at  all!  Certainly  not!  Delighted,  I'm  sure! 

KATHERINE  (-with  undiminished  sweetness). 
Sorry,  you've  come  too  late.  Our  lesson's  ended. 
We've  learned  it  perfectly,  haven't  we,  Mr. 
Vance? 

VANCE  (recovering  himself).  Yes;  perfectly. 
Mrs.  Wildmere,  Kath — Miss  Rogers  is  an  excel 
lent  teacher. 

FRED  (despairingly,  aside  to  TOM).  Calls  her 
Katherine!  Hear?  No  use! 

VANCE  (artfully).  Come  to  think  of  it,  though, 
Miss  Rogers,  there  is  one  little  point  I'm  not 
quite  clear  about.  I — perhaps,  if  you  don't 
mind,  it  might  be  a  good  idea  to — to  ask  Mrs. 
Wildmere  and — the  others  to — excuse  us  for  a 
little  bit.  We  could  go  down  into  the  rose-gar 
den  or — somewhere.  Be  back  directly,  of  course. 
Mrs.  Wildmere! — till  you  could  make  it  plain  to 
me?  (Approaching  KATHERINE).  Will  you 
come?  You'll  excuse  us,  Mrs.  Wildmere? 

MRS.  WILDMERE  (taken  unawares).  Oh,  why — 
er — Oh,  certainly !  We'll  excuse  you ! 

DISCOMFITED  CHORUS  (discordantly).  Oh,  why 
— certainly!  We'll  excuse  you! 

CAPTAIN  TRUE  (as  the  two  disappear).  But — 
wait! — see  here!  You're  forgetting  the  guitar! 

VANCE  (blithely,  front  afar).  Never  mind  the 
guitar.  We  don't  need  the  guitar! 

TOM   (emphatically).     Well,  I  like  that. 
CURTAIN. 


24 


A  HALT  ON  THE  TRAIL. 

SCENE  Five  weary  and  dust-begrimed  travel 
ers  are  descending  a  narrow  trail  in  the  Sierra 
Madre  Motintains.  The  gentlemen  are  afoot;  the 
ladies  ride  sure-footed  shaggy  little  burros.  In 
the  lead  is  PROFESSOR  PLANKMIRE,  an  elderly  geol 
ogist.  He  is  followed  by  the  MISSES  THORNDYKE, 
who  look  fagged  and  flurried,  and  anything  but 
amiable. 

THE  PROFESSOR  (continuing  loudly — for  he  is 
determined  to  be  heard  above  the  clatter  of  the 
burros'  hoofs).  And  now,  ladies,  if  you  will 
carefully  observe  the  cliffs  we  are  about  to  pass, 
I  can  give  you  a  clear  illustration  of  what  I  have 
remarked  in  regard  to  the  rock  formation  of  the 
post-tertiary  period.  You  will  see  that  azoic 
rocks — etc.,  etc.  (Meanwhile,  Miss  HENRIETTA 
THORNDYKE,  the  elder  sister,  is  craning  her  neck 
in  a  vain  effo'rt  to  se'e  around  a  turn  in  the  trail.) 

Miss  FRANCES  (apprehensively).  What  are 
you  looking  at,  sister?  Is  it  snakes? — or  a  bear? 
—or  anything?  You  make  me  extremely  nervous 
— really?  Is  my  skirt  awry? 

25 


Miss  HENRIETTA  (fretfully).  What  has  be 
come  of  the  young  people?  Isn't  it  odd  they  keep 
so  far  behind  us,  Frances?  I  declare  I  believe 
they  want  to  get  out  of  sight!  I'll  never  under 
take  such  responsibilities  again — I  am  quite 
wrought  up  over  it!  They  may  be  making  love 
to  each  other  this  minute,  for  all  we  know! 

Miss  FRANCES  (decisively).  Of  course  they 
are;  depend  upon  Helen  King  to  manage  that! 
Such  a  designing  girl!  Not  at  all  like  we  were, 
when  we  were  girls.  7  would  have  died  rather 
than  ask  such  attentions  from  a  young  unmar 
ried  man.  "Tighten  her  saddle!"  a  mere  subter 
fuge  !  My  saddle  has  been  wabbling  for  an  hour ; 
but  if  the  Professor  won't  offer  to  tighten  it,  it 
may  come  off  and  take  me  with  it  to  the  bottom 
of  the  gorge.  I'll  fix  it  myself  when  we  reach 
a  level  place — there  don't  seem  to  be  any  level 
place  on  this  trail — where  I  can  get  off.  What 
n  he  talking  about  now,  Henrietta? 

Miss  HENRIETTA  (indifferently).  Oh,  about 
the  erosion  of  auriferous  rocks  or  something  like 
that.  (Simulating  an  interest  and  speaking  loud 
ly.)  Very  interesting,  I'm  sure,  Professor!  (To 
her  sister.)  Sister  Frances,  can  you  hear  them 
coming? 

THE  PROFESSOR.  You  will  be  struck  by  the 
signs  of  glacial  action,  which  become  less  marked, 
however,  as  we  descend ;  but  a  close  examination 
still  reveals  unmistakable  striae.  Whoa! — excuse 
me,  ladies.  Let  us  wait  until  our  young  friends 
overtake  us.  They  must  not  miss  these  interest 
ing  rocks! 

26 


Yes;  let  us  wait-  Indeed  it  would  be  too  bad 
to  let  them  miss  these  interesting  rocks!  Per 
haps  one  of  us  had  better  go  back  and  hurry 
them  up.  Isn't  it  getting  late?  Frances,  you  are 
behind,  suppose  you  turn  'round  and  hurry  them 
up? 

Miss  FRANCES  (helplessly).  But  I  can't  turn. 
He  won't  turn  (referring  to  her  opinionated 
burro),  and  besides,  my  saddle  is  loose! 

THE  PROFESSOR  (tranquilly).  Well,  well!  Let 
us  be  patient!  They  will  soon  overtake  us. 
Where  is  my  hammer?  Shall  I  bring  you  a  speci 
men1?  Let  us  be  patient! 

11 

"Our  young  friends"  have  halted  in  the  shadow 
of  a  magnificent  pine,  whose  gigantic  shaft, 
springing  from  unseen  depths,  rises  like  a  ca 
thedral  spire  above  them.  HELEN  KING,  with  her 
foot  freed  from  the  stirrup  and  her  hat  pushed 
back,  leans  upon  her  burro's  neck.  DICK  LEVER 
ING  can  be  heard  scrambling  about  below,  whence 
comes  the  tinkle  of  falling  water. 

HELEN  (giving  the  burro  a  hug}.  Are  you 
thirsty,  too,  you  poor  little  beast?— Are  you  tired 
and  hot  and  dusty  and  cross  like  the  rest  of  us? 
I  think  I  never  knew  a  more  disagreeable  person 
than  that  Miss  Henrietta  Thorndyke— unless  it  is 
her  sister;  and  the  Professor  wears  one  out  with 

his  never-ending I  suppose  they'll  think  I'm 

behaving  frightfully,  to  let  them  lose  sight  of  me 
for  a  minute.  How  Miss  Henrietta's  neck  will 

27 


ache  tonight!  (with  a  look  of  extreme  satisfac 
tion.)  If  I  thought  being  an — being  unmarried 
would  make  me  like  that,  I'd  take  a  husband  to 
morrow.  Well!  (as  Dick  returns)  I  thought 
you'd  never  come!  I  hope  you  didn't  drink  up 
the  entire  stream?  I'm  famished!  What  kept 
you  so  long?  I  fancied  I  could  hear  you  tum 
bling  down — down — down — 

DICK.  And  were  you  thinking  of  my  mangled 
body  lying  a  thousand  feet  below  you  with  that 
complacent  smile  on  your  face?  Here's  your 
drink!  Take  it  in  homeopathic  doses,  please,  I 
spilled  most  of  it  climbing  up.  By  Jove,  it's 
wild  down  there !  This  gorge  is  cut  out  of  the 
solid  rock. 

HELEN  (sipping).  So  kind  of  you,  Dick!  How 
flushed  you  look.  You're  not  tired? — How  odd! 
I'm  feeling  quite  cooled  and  rested,  and  so  is 
Maximiliano. 

DICK  (scowling).  "Maximiliano?"  Where  is 
he?  Isn't  that  the  name  of  that  theatrical  Span 
iard  you  thought  so  romantic  yesterday  on  the 
peak? 

HELEN  (still  sipping).  Yes,  that's  his  name. 
Wasn't  he  romantic?  Such  a  lovely  sombrero! 
And  what  a  picturesque  suit,  all  made  out  of 
leather  and  beads  and  bangles  and  fringe  and — 
things.  Ugh!  Drinking  out  of  a  tin  cup  is  so — 
so  plebeian !  His  name  is  Don  Maximiliano  Ser- 
reno.  He  told  me  so — a  lovely  name. 

DICK  (still  scowling).    Where  is  he? 

HELEN.  Who?  Maximiliano?  Oh,  he  isn't 
here!  That's  what  I've  named  my  burro.  (Pat- 


ting  the  beast.)     Poo-oor  Maximiliano !    Arc  you 
tired?    Poo-oor  thing! 

DICK.  May  I  hazard  a  suggestion?  Don't 
you  think  that  name  is  rather  too  big  for  the 
burro?  Sort  of  out  of  proportion? 

HELEN.  Not  at  all!  He  may  be  diminutive 
externally,  but  if  he's  not  handsome  and  pic 
turesque  like  Maximiliano  Serreno,  he  is  brave, 
like  the  Senor,  and  gallant.  I  never  could  have 
gotten  up  this  fearful  trail  without  him.  No. 
Maximiliano  isn't  a  bit  too  fine  for  him. 

DICK  (argumentatively) .  Well,  now,  Helen, 
honestly,  I'm  bound  to  say  it,  I  think  you  are 
idealizing  that  "senor."  He  isn't  a  Spaniard. 
He's  nothing  but  a  common  Mexican— a  dago. 
Any  man  can  get  himself  up  in  deerskins  and  a 
sombrero  and  look  what  you  call  picturesque— I 
shouldn't  call  it  just  that— but  I'm  willing  to 
wager  that  that  fellow  is  neither  brave  nor  gal 
lant.  7  thought  he  looked  like  a  scamp! 

HELEN  (tilting  her  cup).  There— it's  all  gone 
—every  drop.  And  I  meant  to  give  Maximiliano 
half.  How  mean  of  you,  Dick,  to  spill  Maximil- 
iano's  half!  And  he's  so  thirsty,  too! 

DICK.     Do    you    suppose    I    went    clear    down 

there   at  the   risk  of   my  life,   leaving  you  here 

unprotected,    to    get    that    burro    a    drink?     Not 

much!     You'd  hardly  ask  that! 

HELEN.     Oh,   no,   I   wouldn't   ask   it.     If  you 

haven't  enough   sympathy 

DICK  (desperately).  Do  you  know,  Helen 
King,  that  you  have  treated  me  outrageously 
on  this  whole  trip?  Treated  me  with  less  con- 

29 


sideration  than  that  beast?     I  believe  you  enjoy 
tormenting  me! 

HELEN   (with  reproachful  eyes).    Why— Dick! 

DICK  (savagely).  Yes,  you  do!  This  is  the 
first  time  you've  gotten  two  yards  away  from 
Miss  Thorndyke,  and  you  knew  I  was  trying  to 
get  a  chance  to  speak  to  you;  and  on  the  peak 
you  gave  your  whole  time  to  that  villainous- 
looking  Spaniard,  who  may  be  a  foot-pad,  or  a 
horse-thief,  or 

HELEN  (indignantly).  Don  Maximiliano  Ser- 
reno  a  foot-pad!  He  has  an  immense  rancho  in 
the  San  Gabriel  valley— he  told  me  so ! 

DICK  (persisting).  You  gave  your  whole  time 
to  him,  when  you  knew  that  I  came  on  this  trip 
just  to  be  with  you;  and  now,  the  first  chance 
I've  had  to  be  alone  with  you,  you  ask  me  to 
bring  that  burro  a  drink! 

HELEN  (murmuring).    I  don't  ask 

DICK.  Here,  give  me  that  cup !  (He  snatches  the 
tin  cup,  directs  a  vicious  scowl  toward  MAXIMIL 
IANO  and  his  fair  rider,  and  vanishes  down  the 
mountain  side-  MAXIMILIANO  placidly  wags 
his  furry  ears.  There  is  a  great  clatter  of  dis 
lodged  bowlders,  as  DICK  plunges  recklessly 
downward.) 

HELEN  (pensively).  What  will  Miss  Thorn- 
dyke  say  now?  (sighs  plaintively.)  It  will  be 
just  like  Dick  to  stay  as  long  as  he  can!  The 
idea  of  getting  cross  just  because  I  said  Maximil 
iano  was  thirsty!  Men  are  so  unreasonable?  I 
didn't  ask  him  to  get  him  a  drink.  I'm  afraid 
Dick  Levering  has  inherited  his  father's  temper. 

30 


Well!  I  pity  the  girl  he  marries.  (A  long 
pause.)  American  men  are  so  brusque!  Now 
Don  Maximiliano — Gracious !  What  was  that 
noise?  I  hope  Dick  hasn't  fallen? — I — I  can't 
hear  him  anywhere  else.  O — oh,  I  do  hope  he 
isn't  badly  hurt!  If  he  is,  I'll  never  forgive  my 
self  for  sending  him  down  there  again.  It's  all 
my  fault!  (She  begins  to  cry.)  Hope  he  hasn't 

surely  he  wouldn't  purposely.  No ;  of  course 

he  wouldn't  do  anything  so  desperate  as  that! 
How  miserable  he  looked,  though,  just  as  if  I 
— Oh,  I  wish  I  knew  what  made  that  awful 
noise!  (She  listens  intently.  The  mysterious 
sound  is  repeated  by  hollow  echoes,  which  die 
away  into  silence  profound.  Mechanically  HELEN 
straightens  her  hat.  Then  she  sits  with  dilated 
eyes  and  lips  apart  while  MAXIMILIANO  serenely 
wags  his  ears.) 

HELEN  (in  a  whisper).  Yes!  he  must  have 
fallen.  Perhaps  he  is  dead.  If  he  isn't,  why 
doesn't  he  come  back?  What  keeps  him  so  long? 

I'll  never  forgive  myself — never!  I'll Oh — 

thank  Heaven,  he's  coming.  I  hear  him !  (She 
waits  eagerly  until  a  figure  in  buckskin  and  a 
sombrero  appears.) 

HELEN.    The  senor! 

DON  MAXIMILIANO  SERRENO  (gallantly).  Buenos 
dias,  senorita! 

HELEN  (in  lame  Spanish).    Buenos  dias,  senor. 

DON  MAXIMILIANO.     Sure-lee,  you  are  not  a— 

lone?    The  senor,  your  caballero,  where  ees  he? 

HELEN    (enunciating   very   distinctly).     He    is 

31 


gone  to  bring  water  from  the  stream  below. 

DON  MAXIMILIANO.    Vaya!    And  you  are  not 
affrighted   senorita,   to   be  left  a — lone,   so? 
asi? 

HELEN.  Oh,  certainly  not,  sefior.  We  Ameri 
can  women  are  not  so  timid. 

DON  MAXIMILIANO  (stopping  beside  her}.   And 
the  others — the  Pro-iessor  and  the  ladees,  whei 
ees  it  they  have  gone? 

HELEN.  Oh,  they  are  on  ahead  somewhere. 
We  have  been  resting  here  for  half  an  hour. 
(The  senor's  amiable  smile  suddenly  disappears. 
He  clutches  MAXIMILIANO' s  bridle  and  frowns  fe 
rociously.} 

DON  MAXIMILIANO.  Money!— I  must  have 
money ! — Queeck ! 

HELEN  (startled}.  What— why,  what  is  the 
matter,  sefior?.  .What 

DON  MAXIMILIANO.    Geeve  me  money — queeck! 

HELEN  (beginning  to  tremble}.  I — I — I  do  not 
understand  you,  senor.  I — I  have  no  money. 
What 

DON  MAXIMILIANO.  Caramba!  Geeve  me 
ycur  purse — queeck!  and  your  ring — queeck — or 
I  choke  you!  Understand  now,  senorita? 
(HELEN  tries  to  scream,  but  the  senor's  hand  ts 
over  her  mouth.  He  pulls  the  ring  from  her 
finger  and  tears  the  pin  from  her  throat.}  Now 
you  must  be  quiet.  Chito!  Be  quiet,  senorita, 
or  sangre  de  los  santos — I  will  shoot !  (More 
rapidly  than  he  approached  the  picturesque  Span 
iard  retraces  his  steps.  HELEN  shivers  and  sobs, 
but  is  discreet  enough  to  make  no  outcry.  For  a 


32 


time,  timid  and  tearful,  she  clings  to  the  burro's 
neck.  Soon  the  sound  of  retreating  steps  is  heard 
no  more.  HELEN  grows  calmer.  She  sits  erect 
with  a  ivhite  face  and  dishevelled  hair.) 

HELEN  (gasping).  My  ring — gone!  My  pin — 
gone!  That  man — that  dreadful  man — a  robber! 
I  have  been  robbed!  If  he  could  have  found 
my  pocket  he  would  have  taken  my  purse !  Oh, 
how  scared  I  am !  If  I  could  only  have  screamed 

so  Dick How  Dick  will  laugh  at  me!  The 

senor  a  robber!  Why  doesn't  Dick  come?  That 
noise — the  Mexican!  He  has  murdered  Dick! 
Oh,  what  shall  I  do?  What  shall  I  do?  (She 
hides  her  face  in  her  trembling  hands.  DICK  re 
appears,  smiling  like  a  cherub,  and  carrying  the 
tin-cup,  full  this  time  to  the  brim,  with  the  utmost 
caution.  So  softly  does  he  step  that  HELEN  is 
not  conscious  of  his  coming.) 

DICK  (sweetly).    Helen! 

HELEN  (with  a  shriek  and  a  shudder) .  E-ee-eh ! 
Is  that  you,  Dick — you?  Oh,  how  you  startled 
me! 

DICK.  Why,  Helen,  how  pale  you  look!  (Ten 
derly.)  Were  you  frightened,  Helen? 

HELEN  (suddenly  composed).  Frightened? 
How  ridiculous !  Do  you  think  I'm  such  a  cow 
ard  that  I'm  afraid  to  stay  a  few  seconds  alone? 

DICK  (meekly).  Oh,  I  didn't  mean  that  ex 
actly.  I  thought  may-be,  perhaps — you  know,  I 
thought  possibly  you  were  worried  about  my 
staying  so  long. 

HELEN  (recovering  her  spirits).  Long?  Were 
you  gone  long?  I  hadn't  noticed.  I've  been — 

33 


enjoying  the  wind  in  these  pine  trees.  Listen! 
Doesn't  it  sing? 

DICK.  Didn't  you  hear  that  big  bowlder  I  sent 
down? 

HELEN  (deceitfully).  Bowlder?  No-o,  I  wasn't 
noticing.  Yes,  I  believe  I  did  hear  something 
falling.  Give  Maximiliano  his  drink,  poor  fel 
low  !  I  think  I'll  call  him  Max,  as  you  suggested, 
Dick.  It's  shorter  and  more  appropriate.  Poor 
Max!  So  good  of  you,  Dick!  But  first  I  wish 
you'd  just  pour  the  least  bit  on  my  handkerchief. 
I  want  to  remove  a  few  layers  of  dust.  (With 
the  dampened  handkerchief  she  administers  a  vig 
orous  rubbing  to  that  part  of  her  countenance 
defiled  by  the  touch  of  the  picturesque  senor.) 
There,  Max,  take  your  drink.  Are  those  flowers 
for  me,  Dick? 

DICK.  You  surely  don't  think  I'd  bring  them 
for  Maximiliano? 

HELEN  (earnestly).  Please  call  him  Max— 
won't  you,  Dick?  It  is  more  appropriate.  And 
besides  I — I've  been  thinking  that  probably  I  did 
— idealize  that  Mexican.  Thanks  for  the  flowers. 
They're  delicious.  Now  where  shall  I  put  them? 
I'm  a  regular  hanging  garden  already.  Perhaps 
you  could  take  one  of  the  pins  out  of  my  hat  and 
fasten  the  flowers  at  my  belt,  if  it  isn't  too  much 
trouble.  Then  we  must  start.  Miss  Thorndyke 
will  be  frantic! 

DICK  (obediently  s'eeking  the  hat-pin).  Bother 
Miss  Thorndyke  and  Miss  Frances  Thorndyke 
and  that  azoic  old  professor!  I'll  never  go  any 
where  with  such  a  lot  of  sticks  again ! 

34 


HELEN.  Nor  I.  I've  had  a  perfectly  horrible 
time.  Everybody  has  been  so — so  disappointing 
and  detestable! 

DICK  (in  poignant  anxiety).  Do  you  mean  to 
include  me  in  that,  Helen?  Have  I  been  detest 
able,  too? 

HELEN.  You're  running  that  hat-pin  clear 
through  me! 

DICK  (penitently).    Did  it  hurt? 

HELEN  (petulantly).  Hurt?  Of  course  it  hurts 
to  be  perforated  like  that!  Do  you  think  I'm 
made  of  stone? 

DICK  (significantly).  Sometimes  I  think  you 
are!  There — they  are  fastened.  Why,  Helen, 
did  I  really  hurt  you?  I  give  you  my  word^  I'm 
sorry !  I'd  rather  cut  off  my  head  than  give  you 
the  least  prick  of  a  pin!  What  makes  you  cry, 
Helen  ?  Why  do  you  tremble  so  ?  Tell  me !  I — 
I  love  you — Helen! 

HELEN  (incoherently).  Oh,  I — Oh,  you — Oh, 
Max — We  must  go,  Dick.  See,  Max  knows  we 
ought  to  be  going. 

DICK.  Whoa,  Max!  Helen,  listen  to  me.  I 
love  you.  It  made  me  happy  just  to  imagine  that 
you  were  worried  about  me.  I  thought  you 
thought  I  had  fallen 

HELEN  (with  crushing  severity).  Dick  Lever 
ing,  you  rolled  that  bowlder  off  on  purpose  to 
startle  me! 

DICK  (abjectly).  Yes,  Helen;  I  did.  I 
thought 

HELEN  (scornfully).  Get  up,  Max!  And  you 
profess  to  love  me! 

35 


DICK  (fervently).    Whoa,  Max!    I  adore  you! 

HELEN.  If — if  you  loved  me,  you  couldn't  bear 
to  give  me  such  a  shock. 

DICK  (radiantly).    Then  it  was  a  shock!    Oh, 
I'm  so  glad!     And  you  do  love  me?     And  you 
will  marry  me?    And — dearest! 
TABLEAU. 

Ten  minutes  later.  THE  MISSES  THORNDYKE 
and  PROFESSOR  PLANKMIRE  (as  one  voice).  Where 
have  you  been? 

HELEN  (demurely).  So  sorry  to  keep  you  wait 
ing,  but  really  poor  Max  was  so  tired  that  he 
absolutely  couldn't  move  another  step !  And  poor 
Di — Mr.  Levering  had  to  climb  down  and  bring 
him  a  drink,  and — I  hope  you  haven't  been  incon 
venienced? 

THE  PROFESSOR  (blandly).  Well— well!  We 
must  be  moving  if  we  are  to  reach  those  Drift 
Deposits  before  dark.  As  I  was  about  to  say, 
you  must  not  fail  to  observe — etc.,  etc.,  etc.,  ad 
lib. 


CURTAIN. 


36 


A  COMPLETE  SUCCESS. 

CHARACTERS. 

MRS.  Jo  NORTH,  a  tremendously  busy  woman. 

MONDAY,  her  pet  skye. 

BESSIE  STEPHENSON,  her  pretty  sister. 

JOSEPH  M.  NORTH,  her  husband,  a  successful 
man  of  business. 

MRS.  CHEVALIER,  her  friend  and  co-worker. 

DICK  ARLINGTON,  Bessie's  fiance. 

MR.  WILL  GRIFFITH,  a  young  gentleman  of  leis 
ure. 

SCENE — Mrs.  Jo  North's  quaint  and  cosy  morn 
ing-room,  10  A.  M.  It  is  a  legal  holiday,  and  Mr. 
Jo  North  is  at  home,  sprawling  over  a  couple  of 
chairs  and  looking  rather  bored,  as  he  listlessly 
fondles  the  unresponsive  skye.  A  half-smoked 
cigar  lies,  with  the  morning  paper,  on  a  table  at 
his  elbow.  Mrs.  Jo  is  at  her  escritoire,  writing 
furiously.  Her  set  lips  and  the  two  perpendicular 
wrinkles  which  stretch  from  her  small  nose  to  her 

37 


Huffy  blonde  pompadour  denote  determined  con 
centration.  Knocks  are  heard  upon  door  L,  but 
Mrs.  Jo  ignores  them. 

MR.  N.  (in  the  midst  of  a  yawn.)  Umm-mm- 
yah!  Come  in! 

(Enter  MR.  GRIFFITH.) 

GRIFFITH  (holding  his  hat  and  stick  and  smil 
ing  expansively.)  Good  morn — (discovering  MR. 
NORTH)  Hello!  What's  going  to  happen?  You 
here? 

MR.  N.  (explaining  apologetically).  Legal  hol 
iday,  you  know. 

GRIFFITH  (whose  days  are  all  holidays).  Oh,  I 
see !  What  is  it  this  time  that  the  Nation  delights 
to  honor?  Washington,  or  St.  Patrick,  or  the 
Declaration  of  Independence?  And  how  is  Mrs. 
North,  after  her — after  her  strenuous  exertions 
in  behalf  of  sweet  charity? 

MRS.  N.  (writing  harder  than  ever).  Don't 
speak  to  me!  Don't  interrupt  me!  I'm  writing. 

GRIFFITH  (blandly).  Ah!  North,  your  wife 
is  the  busiest  person  I  know ;  a  perfect  slave ! 
Why  don't  you  ask  me  to  sit  down? 

MR.  N.  I'm  too  sleepy;  why  don't  you  sit 
down  without  being  asked?  Sit  down! 

GRIFFITH  (carefully  laying  hat  and  stick  on 
chair) .  Thanks !  (  Sinks  into  Turkish  seat  in 
corner  of  room.)  You're  not  smoking? 

MR.  N.  (drowsily).  No?  Guess  I  am.  Have 
one? 

GRIFFITH.  What  luck!  Mrs.  Jo  will  never  let 
me  smoke.  Why  this  discrimination?  (to  MRS. 

38 


NORTH,  who  does  not  hear.)  Oh,  I  beg  your  par 
don,  Mrs.  North,  don't  let  me  disturb  you  (Lights 
a  cigarette.)  It's  a  pity  there  aren't  more  legal 
holidays.  (To  MR.  NORTH.)  I'm  so  glad  you're 
at  home.  I  may  smoke!  (Puffs  ecstatically.) 

MRS.  Jo  (dropping  her  pen).  There!  Heaven 
be  praised,  that's  done!  (Uses  blotter  energet 
ically.)  If  ever  I  am  wheedled  into  anything  like 
that  again,  I  hope  my  friends  will  have  expert 
examination  as  to  my  sanity! 

GRIFFITH.  What's  the  matter,  Mrs.  Jo?  You 
look  flustered. 

MRS.  Jo.  Who  wouldn't  look  flustered,  I'd  like 
to  know?  We've  worked  four  solid  weeks  to 
make  a  success  of  that  Mrs.  Emerson-Osgood- 
Adams  recital,  and  now  I've  got  to  report  the  to 
tal  profit  as  four  dollars  and  eighty-five  cents. 
I'm  half  dead! 

GRIFFITH  (laughing).  By  Jove!  Four  dollars 
and  eighty-five  cents! 

MR.  N.  (dreamily).  One  dollar  and  twenty- 
one  and  one-quarter  cents  a  week.  My  dear,  I'm 
proud  of  you. 

MRS.  Jo.  If  you  make  fun  of  me,  I  shall  just 
break  right  down  and  cry!  It's  too  bad!  But 
our  expenses  were — they  were  awful — paralyz 
ing!  I  never  thought  of  adding  them  up  till 
after  it  was  over  last  night.  You  see,  we  had  to 
pay  her  seventy-five  dollars  to  begin  with ;  she 
wouldn't  open  her  lips  for  a  cent  less 

MR.  N.  A  good  business  head  has  Mrs.  Em- 
erson-Osgood-Adams ! 

GRIFFITH.    Well,  I'm  glad  to  hear  it's  good  for 

39 


something!     A  homelier  being  I  never  beheld. 

MRS.  Jo.  She  isn't  a  beauty,  that's  true.  If  she 
were,  she'd  have  been  well  married  before  this, 
instead  of  earning  her  bread  by  the  sweat  of  other 
people's  brows,  as  she's  doing  now!  Mercenary 
thing!  Extorting  seventy-five  dollars  from  us, 

and  leaving  us  with  a  profit  of 

GRIFFITH.  Ha!  Ha!  Four-eighty-five!  Car 
olyn  will  faint!  She  sent  me  around  on  purpose 
to  find  how  much  you'd  made.  She  said  it  was 
a  complete  success .'  She's  in  bed  with  one  of  her 
face-aches,  of  course.  Went  without  her  lunch 
eon  yesterday. 

MRS.  Jo.  So  did  I ;  so  did  all  of  us !  We  were 
too  busy  decorating  to  take  time  to  eat.  Didn't 
the  stage  look  lovely?  That  roses-tangled-up-in- 
a-tennis-net  idea  of  Carolyn's  was  a  perfect  in 
spiration  ! 

GRIFFITH.  Guess  it  was  too  much  for  her. 
Poor  girl!  She  looks  shocking!  (A  knock  w 
heard  on  door  L.) 

MR.  N.   (yawning).     Umn-yah !     Come  in! 
(Enter  MRS.  CHEVALIER.) 

MRS.  C.  Who's  here?  Good  morning!  Goo- 
oo-ood  morning,  Monday  darling  (takes  dog  from 
MR.  N.).  Is  he  rumpling  your  ears  all  wrong? 
Eva,  I've  just  rushed  around  the  first  thing  to 

find  out  how  much  we 

MRS.  Jo.  Oh,  of  course !  How  much  we  made ! 
Well,  my  dear,  prepare  yourself!  I'm  almost 
ashamed  to  tell  you ;  it's  so  paltry. 

MRS.  C.  Then  we  didn't  lose  anything?  (MRS. 
Jo  shakes  her  head.)  Well,  I'm  thankful !  I  got 

40 


to  thinking  about  it  last  night,  and  I  just  laid 
awake  and  quaked !  I  was  sure  we'd  never  pat 
expenses ! 

MRS.  Jo  (solemnly').  We  cleared  four  dollars 
and  eighty-five  cents. 

MRS.  C.  (dropping  Monday).  Oh!  That's  al 
most  worse  than  not  making  anything!  Four 
dollars  (mournfully)  and  eighty-five  cents.  Well, 
I  hope  my  husband  won't  find  it  out.  I  shall 
never  hear  the  last  of  it!  (Throwing  herself 
into  a  chair.)  I'm  done  working  for  charities! 

MRS.  Jo.     So  am  I. 

MR.  N.  (skeptically).  Seems  to  me  I've  heard 
something  like  that  before. 

MRS.  C.  Well,  I  mean  it  this  time!  I  hate 
philanthropy. 

MRS.  Jo.     So  do  I.    I  believe  it's  demoralizing! 

(Enter  L  without  knocking,  BESSIE  STEPHEN- 
SON,  who  leaves  the  door  ajar.) 

BESSIE  (breathlessly).  Oh!  Eva!  Dick  and  I 
have  a  wager  (pants)  and  I  want  you  to  tell  me 
— Quick,  he's  coming! — did  we  lose  money?  If 
we  did,  don't 

(Enter  Lf  DICK  ARLINGTON.) 

DICK.  Oh,  Mrs.  Jo,  don't  let  her  coax  you 
into  — I  mean — you  see,  we  have  a  bet.  Has  she 
told  you? 

BESS.  How  could  I  tell  her  when  I  haven't 
had  time  to  catch  my  breath? 

DICK  (to  MRS.  Jo).  Well,  I  say  you  didn't 
clear  enough  to  buy  peanuts  for  the  Protestant 
Orphan  Asylum 

BESS.    And  I  say  that  we  did! 

41 


DICK  (to  MRS.  Jo).    Honestly,  now!    Did  you? 

BESS  (importunately,  to  MRS.  Jo).  Didn't  we? 
Say  we  did!  If  we  didn't 

MR.  N.  Stop  browbeating  my  wife,  or  I'll  send 
Monday  to  protect  her! 

BESS  and  DICK  (imploringly).    Tell  me! 

MRS.  Jo  (solemnly).  We  made  four  dollars 
and  eighty-five  cents. 

BESS  and  DICK.  Four  dollars  and  eighty-five 
cents  ? 

MRS.  C,  MR.  N.  and  GRIP,  (cofroboratively) . 
Four  eighty-five! 

(DiCK  (laughing  triumphantly).  Bess,  I've 
won! 

BESS.  Dick  Arlington,  I  think  you  are  the 
most  thoroughly — er — unsympathetic  man !  The 
idea  of  roaring  like  that !  Think  of  the  good  the 
money  we  didn't  make  might  have  done!  I — I'm 
ashamed  of  you ! 

DICK.    Oh,  come  now,  Bessie !    Don't  be  cross ! 

BESS  (walking  to  window,  L.  B.,  and  looking 
out).  I  won't  "come  now."  I  think  you  are 
cold-blooded. 

GRIFFITH  (laughing).  Dick,  my  boy,  you're  in 
for  it. 

BESS.  I  think  you're  all  cold-blooded!  Laugh 
ing  and — I  could  cry! 

DICK  (crossing  to  window).  Don't  do  that, 
Bessie! 

BESS.  You  have  no  sympathy  for  the — the  poor 
and  the  oppressed.  The  idea  of  laughing  because 
we  only  made  four  dollars,  and  (with  something 
between  a  sigh  and  a  sob) — and  eighty-five  cents. 

42 


You  don't  care  if  our  recital  was  a  failure  as  long 
as  you've  won  your  wager!  I'll  never  pay  it 
(turns  to  face  DICK);  never!  I  don't  believe 
in  wagers  anyhow!  You  just  coerced  me  into 

DICK.    Why,  Bessie,  You 

BESS.  Yes,  you  did!  Besides,  I  don't  believe 
you've  won!  Four  dollars  and  eighty-five  cents 
would  buy  (with  sudden  enthusiasm,  running 
to  MR.  N.)  Brother  Jo — how  many  bags  of  pea 
nuts  would  four  dollars  and  eighty-five  cents  buy? 
(DiCK  follows,  and  they  bend  over  MR.  N.) 

MR.  N.    Let's  see?    How  mttch  a  bag? 

DICK.    Ten  cents. 

BESS.  No !  Five  cents.  Who  ever  heard  of 
paying  ten  cents  a  bag  for  peanuts  ?  Ridiculous ! 

MR.  N.  Well — five  into  four  eighty—five  goes 
— five  into  forty-eight,  nine.  Five  into  thirty- 
five,  seven — Ninety-seven  bags  of  peanuts. 

BESS  (turning  to  MRS.  Jo,  closely  followed  by 
DICK).  And  how  many  orphans  are  there  in  the 
Protestant  Orphans'  Asylum?  Oh,  Eva,  you 
know !  Quick ! 

MRS.  Jo  (cautiously).  Whole  orphans  or  half 
orphans  ? 

BESS.    Whole  orphans! 

DICK.  Whole  orphans  and  'half  orphans.  How 
many? 

MRS.  Jo.  Well,  when  the  last  annual  report 
was — er — issued,  there  were  altogether  thirty- 
seven  whole  orphans  and  fifty-five  half  orphans. 

MR.  N.    What's  all  this  about  half  or 

BESS    (dancing).       That     makes     ninety-two! 

43 


Good !  Good !  I've  won  after  all.  There's  money 
enough  for  ninety-seven!  Eva,  if  you  had  said 
ninety-eight  I  should  have  expired.  Pay  me, 
instantly,  Mr.  Dick  Arlington!  I  don't  approve 
of  wagers,  and  I  shall  never  make  another  as 
long  as  I  live;  but  you  shall  pay  me  this  one,  just 
to  punish  you  for  being  so  unfeeling  about  those 
poor  orphans ! 

GRIFFITH  (leaning  back  among  his  Turkish 
cushions).  Ha!  ha!  Fork  over,  Dick!  You've 
lost! 

DICK.  Never!  I  don't  believe  you  can  buy 
peanuts — good,  wholesome,  fresh-roasted  peanuts 
that  any  self-respecting  orphan  would  eat— for 
five  cents  a  bag. 

BESS.     Pay  your  wager! 

DICK.  Not  till  I've  satisfied  myself  about  the 
price  of  peanuts.  I'm  going  to  ask  a  peanut  man. 
There's  one  on  the  next  corner.  (Starts  off.) 

BESS.  Then  I'm  going  with  you!  You're  not 
to  be  trusted.  You  might 

DICK.  You're  not  going  with  me,  Bessie 
Stephenson !  You'll  insist  upon  jewing  him  down. 
And  my  wager  was  made  on  the  prevailing  price 
of  peanuts — fresh-roasted,  double- jointed,  self-re 
specting  peanuts. 

MR.  N.  Stop  this  unseemly  quarreling!  I'll 
go  myself  and  learn  the  price  of  peanuts.  (Ris 
ing.)  I'll  be  back  directly. 

DICK   (calling  to  MR.   N.).    Double-jointed!— 

MRS.  Jo.  Yes,  do  go!  Jo,  you're  a  dear! 
(After  MR.  NORTH'S  exit.)  He's  delighted  to 
have  an  excuse  to  get  out.  Some  day,  a  legal 

44 


holiday  will  be  the  death  of  him!  (Goes  to  In 
dian  basket  filled  with  oranges  on  table  R.)  Have 
an  orange  while  we  wait? 

BESS.    Oh,  yes!    Let's  eat  oranges. 

DICK  and  GRIFFITH  (to  Bess).  Shall  I  fix  one 
for  you? 

MRS.  Jo.  Don't  all  speak  at  once!  I  suppose 
(to  MRS.  C.)  that  you  and  I  and  Monday  will 
have  to  fix  our  own  oranges  for  ourselves !  Nice 
to  be  a  rosebud,  isn't  it? 

(DICK  and  GRIFFITH  each  set  about  fixing  an 
orange  for  BESSIE  in  mad  haste,  while  she  looks 
over  the  report  her  sister  has  left  on  the  escri 
toire.  MRS.  Jo  and  MRS.  C.  halve  an  orange  and 
begin  to  eat.) 

BESS.  My !  What  a  splendid  business  woman 
you  are,  Eva!  Your  report  looks  lovely!  How 
did  you  keep  your  column  of  figures  so  straight? 
Mine  are  always  bias,  like  the  leaning  tower  of 
Pisa. 

GRIFFITH  (finishes  peeling  his  orange  first}. 
Have  an  orange,  Miss  Bessie? 

BESS  (sweetly).  Oh,  thank  you,  Mr.  Griffith! 
Were  you  fixing  it  for  me  ?  So  kind  of  you ! 

DICK  (beginning  to  eat  his  orange  as  if  it  had 
never  been  intended  for  anyone  else).  Choice 
fruit,  this,  Mrs.  Jo.  From  your  own  ranch? 

MRS.  Jo.  No ;  Tom  sent  them  from  Redlands. 
Who  do  you  think  he  met  there  the  other  day? 
Edith  Gardner! 

MRS.  C.  No!  Well— really— a  chance  to  re 
new  their  old  affair!  I  heard  somebody  say 

45 


yesterday  that  Tom  was (They  continue  to 

chat  aside.) 

BESS  (enjoying  her  orange).  They  say  that 
the — er —  native  Californians  eat  their  oranges 
from  a — sort  of  suck  them,  don't  you  know,  from 
a  little  hole  in  the  top. 

DICK  (determined  to  take  part  in  the  conversa 
tion).  How  interesting.  (Takes  a  fresh  orange.) 
Believe  I'll  try  it!  But  I  say,  Bess,  where's  the 
hole? 

BESS  (continuing  to  address  GRIFFITH).  But 
it  seems  to  me  that  the  very  nicest  way  is  to  use 
a  spoon.  That's  the  way  they  do  in 

GRIFFITH.  Suppose  I  get  a  spoon  for  you? 
Shall  I? 

BESS  (more  sweetly  than  ever).  Oh,  if  you 
will.  It's  such  a  nice  way !  You're  awfully  kind ! 

GRIFFITH  (to  MRS.  Jo).  I'm  going  to  invade 
your  silver  closet.  I  know  the  way. 

MRS.  Jo  (busily  gossiping  with  her  friend). 
Certainly.  Go  on. 

(Exit  GRIFFITH.) 

DICK  (plaintively,  to  Bessie,  who  is  devoting 
herself  to  Monday).  Bess,  are  you — you're  not 
cross  ? 

BESS  (to  MONDAY).  Never  mind!  Monday 
shall  have  some  orange,  so  he  shall ! 

DICK.  Bessie  Stephenson,  what  do  you  mean 
by  ignoring  me  like  this?  Answer  me!  (Indis 
tinct  murmurs  from  Bess,  who  continues  to 
fondle  the  skye.)  Why  do  you  accept  that — cad's 
attentions  and 


46 


BESS  (to  MONDAY).  Never  mind!  In  a  min 
ute  he  shall  have  some  orange — so  he  shall ! 

DICK  (waxing  wrathful).  Why  did  you  pre 
fer  Griffith's  orange?  Why  did  you  address  all 
your  conversation  to  him?  Why  couldn't  you 
have  sent  me  for  your  spoon?  I  will  have  an 
answer. 

BESS  (looking  up  in  simulated  astonishment). 
What?  I— I  don't— W'hy-ee,  Dick,  what  is  the 
matter?  Are  you  angry?  (Dick  looks  abused 
and  indignant.)  Oh,  well,  of  course,  if  you're 
going  to  act  this  way,  you  can't  expect 

DICK.  What  have  I  done  to  deserve  such 
treatment?  Tell  me?  Why  should  you  prefer 
Griffith's  oranges?  Why  couldn't  I  bring  you 
your  spoon? 

BESS.  Oh,  well,  if  every  little  thing  must  be 
explained 

DICK  (brokenly).  Have  you  no  consideration 
for  my  feelings?  I  can  stand  a  good  deal — un- 
kindness,  coldness — to  be  utterly  ignored — to — to — 
to — but  to  have  someone  else  doing  everything  for 
you!  It  is  too  much!  You  might  have  let  me 
bring  you  the  spoon! 

BESS.  But,  Dick!  What  a  stupid  you  are! 
I  didn't  want  it.  You  might  have  known  it  was 
only  to — to  get  him  out  of  the  way !  I  think  he's 
awfully  tiresome. 

DICK   (somewhat  mollified).    Oh,  was  that  it? 

BESS.  I  thought,  since  he  suggested  getting 
it,  that  while  brother  Jo  was  gone,  just  to  have 
something  to  do,  I'd  give  Monday  a  little  orange- 
juice;  you  know  Monday  adores  orange-juice! 

47 


DICK.    Oh — I  didn't  know. 

BESS.  And  of  course  Monday  can't  take  it 
without  a  spoon,  and  I  didn't  want  to  send  you 
away.  I — (demurely)  I'd  much  rather  talk  to 
you. 

DICK  (smiling).    Oh! 

BESS.  Yes;  you  see  I  didn't  want  the  spoon 
for  myself.  Why  should  I  be  sending  anyone 
for  a  spoon,  Dick,  dear  (looking  up  roguishly) 
when  I  have  you? 

DICK  (insulted).  Oh!  Am  I  to  infer,  Miss 
Stephenson — (peremptory  knocks  on  door  R. 
Enter  L.,  MR.  NORTH  with  GRIFFITH,  bringing 
spoons.) 

MR.  N.  Well,  Bessie,  peanuts  are  five  cents; 
five  cents  a  single  bag.  Wholesale  at 

DICK.  Five  cents  a  bag?  Double- jointed, 
fresh-roasted  peanuts?  Ruinous!  (Renewed 
knocks  on  door  R.) 

MRS.  Jo  (crossing  to  door  R).  Then  Bess 
has  won!  (Opens  door.)  Jo,  here's  a  message! 
(Takes  it  from  boy.)  Why,  it's  for  me!  (Opens 
envelope.)  It's  from  Sara  Henderson.  (Reads.)  : 

"DEAREST  EVA  :  /  forgot  to  tell  you  last  night, 
when  we  were  counting  up  expenses,  what  I  had 
paid  out  for  -flowers  and  messenger  boys  and 
crepe  paper  for  that  yellow  shade,  and  different 
things.  I  kept  a  strict  account  in  my  notebook, 
and  the  total  amount,  including  ten  cents  for  this 
message,  comes  to — (MRS.  Jo  stops,  glares  at  her 
listeners,  and  continues  in  thrilling  tones)  four 
dollars  and  eighty-five  cents" 

CHORUS.    Four  dollars  and  eighty-five  cents! 

48 


MIL  N.  and  GRIP,  (hilariously').  Entire  profit 
wiped  out! 

DICK.     So  I've  won  my  wager  after  all! 

MRS.  Jo  (reading")  : 

"Please  stop  on  your  way  to  the  meeting  this 
P.  M.  and  tell  me  how  we  came  out.  I'm  dying 
to  know;  but  I'm  ill — quite  worn  out,  in  fact,  and 
I  shan't  be  able  to  be  there. 

11  Yours  devotedly,  SARA." 

If  I  had  "yours  devotedly,"  Sara  Henderson, 
here,  this  minute,  I'd  make  her — cringe !  The 
idea  of  spending  all  our  profit  for  flowers  and 
messenger-boys  and  crepe  paper  shades. 

MRS.  C.  I  always  did  dislike  Sara  Henderson, 
and  now  I  loathe  her! 

BESS.     So  do  I;  making  me  lose  my  wager! 

MR.  N.  Not  to  mention  the  sorrowful  disap 
pointment  of  the  poor  orphans  who  have  been 
confidently  expecting 

MRS.  Jo.  Think  of  all  the  time  and  work  we've 
wasted ! 

MRS.  C.  Think  of  the  teasing  I'll  get,  if  my 
husband  hears  of  this  .  I  shall  commit  suicide! 

MRS.  Jo.  If  that  miserable,  sarcastic,  cynical 
old  editor  of  the  Society  Argus  finds  us  out,  he'll 
put  us  into  his  funny  paragraphs  for  the  next 
year.  Jo,  I  think  I'll  go  off  to  a  health  resort — 
or  somewhere  for  a  while.  I  can  never  live  it 
down  here! 

MR.  N.    Oh,  it's  not  so  bad  as  that,  Eva. 

DICK.  Well,  my  wager's  won,  anyway.  Pay 
up,  Miss  Stephenson !  I  don't  approve  of  wagers, 
|)ut  since  you  insisted  upon  it,  I  demand  my 

49 


money;  and,  to  help  the  Emerson-Osgood-Adams 
Recital  Fund  out,  1 11  donate  it  to  Mrs.  Jo. 

BESS  (meekly).  Oh,  will  you,  Dick?  It's 
awfully  good  of  you!  Jo,  I — I  left  my  purse  at 
home.  Could  you ? 

MR.  N.  (offering  his  wallet).  Here,  my  child, 
it's  at  your  disposal. 

BESS  (looking  into  wallet.)  My!  I  wish  it 
were!  What  lots  of  money!  If  it  were 

MR.  N.  What  would  you  do  with  it,  Bessie? 
Buy  peanuts  for  the  orphans? 

BESS.  No!  After  paying  my  wager,  I'd  give 
the  rest  to  the  Emerson-Osgood-Adams  Recital 
Fund !  Then  Eva  wouldn't  need  to  go  into  exile, 
and  Mrs.  Chevalier's  suicide 

MRS.  Jo.  (clapping  her  hands).  Quick,  Bess! 
Give  it  to  me!  He  said  it  was  at  your  disposal! 
Quick  ! — Jo,  you're  a  dear ! 

MR.  N.    But,  Eva,  look  here!    I  didn't  say 

MRS.  Jo  (counting  bills).  Ten — twenty — thirty 
— thirty-five — Be  still,  Jo!  You  put  it  at  Bessie's 
disposal,  and  she  has  given  it  to  our  Fund!  It's 
too  late  now! 

MR.  N.    But— see  here ! 

BESS.  Jo,  dear !  Dear  J'o !  Think  of  the  little 
orphans. 

MR.  N.     Oh,  bother  the  orphans. 

MRS.  C.     And  of  the  awful  teasing  you'll  save 


me 


BESS.      And    of    your    poor    tired    little    over 
worked,  disappointed  wife ! 

MR.  N.    But 

MRS.    Jo.     Where's    my    report!      (Crosses    to 

50 


escritoire.)  I  must  charge  up  Sara  Henderson's 
hateful  four-eighty-five,  and  credit—  (Counting.) 
Seventy-five — eighty-five — ninety — Oh,  to  think 
that  after  all  our  recital  is  a  success!  Jo,  you 
are  a  dear!  (Tosses  him  the  looted  wallet.) 
Now  (writes  furiously)  nobody  need  ever  know, 
and  I'll  have  it  announced  in  the  Argus  that  the 

Emerson-Osgood-Adams  Recital  cleared . 

Let's  see,  how  much  did  we  clear?  (Begins  to 
add  up  columns.)  Jo,  come  help  me,  do!  How 
much? 

MR.  N.  (as  he  rises,  aside  to  GRIFFITH).  I 
shall  have  to  cinch  somebody  to-morrow  to  make 
up  for  this!  (Crosses  to  escritoire.)  Well,  my 
dear,  (to  MRS.  Jo)  I  hope  your  conscience 
won't 

MRS.  Jo  (rising).  Here!  Sit  down  here! 
(Her  husband  obeys.)  Now  balance  it  up  for 
me!  (Leans  over  him.)  I'm  so  excited  I  can't. 

MRS.  C.  and  GRIF.  How  much?  (They  cross 
to  escritoire  and  bend  over  MR.  N.  with  their 
backs  to  BESS  and  DICK.) 

BESS  (extending  both  hands,  with  a  radiant 
smile.)  Oh,  Dick,  to  think  that  if  it  hadn't  been 
for  you — for  your — our  wager,  brother  Jo  would 
never  have  thought  of  this ! 

Jo  (emphatically,  over  his  shoulder).  I  didn't 
think  of  it.  I  simply  submitted  to  it. 

DICK  (holding  Bessie's  hands).  Bess  Stephen- 
son,  if  you  ever  treat  me  so — so  coldly  again, 
I'll  do  something  desperate! 

BESS.    Desperate?    Oh,  Dick! 

DICK.    Yes,  I  will!     Nobody's  looking,  Bess. 

51 


BESS  (earnestly).  I— I  give  you  my  word, 
Dick,  I  never  will.  Oh!  You  mustn't,  Dick, 
don't! 

MR.  N.  (rising).  There  you  are!  A  hundred 
and  fifteen,  clear! 

MRS.  Jo.  Eureka !  Jo,  you  saved  me  from  dis 
grace.  How  delighted  with  my  management 
everyone  will  be.  I  know  they'll  insist  upon 
getting  up  another  recital  imediately,  since  this 
one  has  been  such  a  complete  success ! 

GRIFFITH.  Ha!  Ha!  Carolyn  was  right.  A 
complete  success! 

MR.  N.  (grimly).    A  complete  success? 

CHORUS  (amid  general  hand-shaking).  A  com 
plete  success! 

CURTAIN. 


52 


HOW  THEY  PRACTICED  THEIR 
TRIO. 

SCENE.— The  practice-room  of  a  Young  Ladies' 
College  Music  Club.  It  is  the  day  before  the 
Club's  annual  concert,  and  three  of  its  members 
have,  by  an  elaborate  stratagem,  secured  the 
room  for  just  one  half-hour  for  a  last  rehearsal 
of  the  trio  they  are  to  render.  They  have  locked 
the  door  and  established  themselves  in  a  comfort 
able  corner,  with  a  box  of  bon-bons  within  reach, 
and  their  notes  upon  racks  before  them.  MAUDE, 
who  is  youthfully  piquant  and  pretty,  rests  the 
tip  of  one  patent  leather  boot  upon  a  low  hassock; 
the  lavender  ribbon  which  decks  her  guitar  makes 
a  harness  for  her  neck.  HELEN,  who  is  a  young 
woman  of  extremely  ample  proportions,  is  trying 
to  cuddle  upon  a  rather  too  narrow  window-seat, 
while  she  devours  goodies  and  thrums  the  classic 
banjo;  and  the  ink-stained  fingers  of  LOUISE  clasp 
the  bit  of  tortoise-shell  which  is  to  evoke  strains 
of  linked  sweetness  from  her  inlaid  mandolin. 

LOUISE.     Hurry   up   now,   girls!     After   we've 
53 


worked  so  hard  to  get  the  room,  we  musn't  waste 
a  minute !  (Strikes  the  first  notes  of  the  prelude 
with  an  air  which  plainly  signifies  that  she  means 
there  shall  be  no  trifling.') 

HELEN  (impatiently,  as  a  string  snaps).  There 
goes  my  string.  Bother!  That's  always  the  way 
when  I'm  in  a  hurry.  There's  nothing  more  pro 
voking  than  a  banjo  string. 

LOUISE.  Unless  it's  a  Greek  verb.  I've  worked 
for  hours- 

HELEN.  Where  is  my  string-bag?  Of  course 

it  must  go  and  get  itself  lost Well,  if  I 

haven't  been  sitting  on  it  the  whole  time!  I 
thought  I  wasn't  just  exactly  comfortable.  Here, 
Lou,  unpucker  it  for  me,  while  I  take  out  this 
string.  I'll  only  be  two  minutes. 

MAUDE  (cheerfully  helping  herself  to  a  crystal 
lised  cherry).  I  think  I  have  my  part  perfectly 
now,  all  but  that  horrid  divertissement  on  the 
last  page.  Oh,  if  I  fail  in  that  I'll  feel  like  ex 
piring!  I'll  never  take  part  in  another  concert. 
It's  too  trying.  I've  had  enough  trouble  over  my 
gown  to  drive  one  mad.  Oh,  girls,  I  had  such 
a  lovely  letter  from  Alice  this  morning ! 

LOUISE  (intensely  interested.)  Did  you?  What 
does  she  say?  I  suppose  they're  awfully  happy? 

MAUDE  (con  expressione).    "Happy!" 

HELEN  (whose  countenance  has  been  contorted 
by  expressions  of  acutest  anguish  during  the 
tightening  of  her  banjo-string).  And  is  he  as  de 
voted  as  ever? 

MAUDE.  "Devoted!"  Well,  they're  simply 
ecstatic!  I  wish  I  had  brought  the  letter.  If  I 

54 


had  had  any  idea  that  Helen  was  going  to  keep 
us  waiting  like  this — let's  see — perhaps  I  can  re 
member  what  she  says.  (Clasps  her  hands  about 
the  neck  of  her  guitar,  and  recites  with  closed 
eyes)  "Yes,  we've  been  married  a  whole  month 
now,  dearest  Maude,  and  I  can  truthfully  say  that 
I  haven't  a  single  regret.  Indeed,  I  never  knew 
what  happiness  was  before.  Harold " 

LOUISE    (murmuring).     How  lovely! 

MAUDE  (continuing  to  quote).  "Harold  is  the 
personification  of — the  personification  of" — pshaw  ! 
I  can't  remember  what  it's  of,  but  it's  something 
sweet. 

HELEN  (whose  interest  in  the  letter  has  caused 
her  to  allow  the  peg  to  slip,  and  who  now  resumes 
h&r  struggle  with  the  refractory  string).  Well, 
she  ought  to  be  happy,  I'm  sure!  I  never  saw 
such  devotion — it  was  perfectly  abject.  He  never 
even  looked  at  the  rest  of  us  if  Alice 

LOUISE  (dubiously}.  But  she  had  only  known 
him  a  year. 

MAUDE  (meaning  to  be  very  sarcastic).  I  sup 
pose  Louise  thinks  people  ought  to  grow  up  to 
gether,  or  else  demand  a  certificate  of 

LOUISE.  Not  at  all!  But  a  year !  And 

you  know,  girls,  Hal  used  to  be 

MAUDE  (vehemently).  Well,  what  if  he  did? 
He  isn't  any  more.  He's  all  right  now,  and  he 
simply  adores  Alice.  He'd  die  for  her!  How  can 
you  talk  so,  Louise?  Just  think  how  he  gave  up 
cigarettes  for  her. 

LOUISE.    Yes — exchanged  them  for  a  nasty  pipe. 

MAUDE.     Don't  be  narrow,  Louise.    Why,  Alice 

55 


says  she  likes  a  fine  meerschaum  or  briar-wood 
pipe.  "Only  a  year!"  Why,  Louise,  everyone 
knows  that  love  isn't  dependent  upon  time.  For 
my  part,  I  believe  in  love  at  first  sight! 

LOUISE  (groaning).    Oh— oh!  Maude! 

HELEN  (laughing).  Maude,  you're  simply  kill 
ing  f 

MAUDE  (defiantly).  Well,  I  do!  Of  course  I 
don't  mean  that  I  think  people  should  be  married 
right  off,  or  even  (weakening  under  their  re 
proachful  glances)  that  they  should  become  en 
gaged  ;  but  I  do  think — I  believe — I  know  (gather 
ing  courage) — yes,  I  know  that  people  can  love 
each  other  the  very  first  time  they  meet.  Why,  I 
knew  a  girl 

THE  OTHERS  (forgetting  their  disapproval).  Oh, 
tell  us  about  her,  Maude,  do! 

MAUDE  (determinedly).  No!  Don't  beg  me. 
I  can't — I've  promised.  But  I  met  her  last  sum 
mer,  and  she  is  married  now,  and  she  loved  her 
husband  before  she  even  knew  his  name.  So, 
there ! 

HELEN.  Oh,  I  know.  It's  that  girl  you  told 
me  about  last  fall.  So  romantic! 

LOUISE.  Yes,  romantic — and  silly.  How  could 
she  love  a  man  before  she  knew  his  thoughts  or 
feelings  or  tastes? 

HELEN  (at  hazard).  Perhaps  she  did  know, 
Lou — er — instinctively. 

LOUISE.  Nonsense!  I  believe  in  long  engage 
ments. 

HELEN.  Well,  /  don't!  I  think,  when  people 
love  each  other,  they  should  be  married  and  be- 

56 


gin  helping  each  other  at  once.  I  don't  like  the 
idea  of  engagements — it's  like  joining  the  church 
on  probation. 

LOUISE  (seriously).  But  surely,  Helen,  a 
broken  engagement  is  better  than  a  wretched 
marriage.  Don't  be  unreasonable! 

HELEN.  A  girl  has  no  business  to  get  engaged 
to  the  wrong  man.  I  despise  a  flirtation — it's  so 
common! 

MAUDE.  That's  why  I  detest  Margaret  Gray- 
son  so.  The  way  she  tri 

LOUISE.  But,  Helen,  sometimes  people  make 
mistakes. 

HELEN.    It's  usually  their  own  fault. 

MAUDE  (dramatically).    Is  it? 
"Unless  you  can  muse  in  a  crowd  all  day 

On  the  absent  face  that  fixed  you, 

Unless  you  can  love  as  the  angels  may 

With  the  breadth  of  Heaven  betwixt  you, 

Unless  you  can  dream  that  his  faith  is  fast 

Through   behooving   and   unbehooving, 

Unless  you  can  die  when  the  dream  is  past 

Oh,  never  call  it  loving !" 

(HELEN  sighs  expansively.  LOUISE  looks  pen 
sively  through  the  window.  MAUDE  fingers  her 
lavender  harness.  There  is  a  dead  silence.) 

HELEN  (abruptly).  Girls,  what  does  "behoov 
ing"  mean,  any  way? 

MAUDE.  "Behooving?"  It  means— "behooving" 
means — Oh,  what  does  "behooving"  mean? 

LOUISE  (earnestly).  Now,  it  seems  to  me  that 
I'd  have  to  know  a  man  was  worthy — no  matter 
how  fascinating.  He'd  have  to  attract  me  by  his 

57 


goodness. 

MAUDE.  Ugh!  "Goodness!"  There  are  lots 
of  good  men  I  simply  abominate!  The  man  I 
love  must  be  brave  and  cultured,  and  he  must 
love  me  better  than  his  life  or  his  honor  or — or 
anything!  I  believe  I  could  overlook  a  man's 
faults  if  he  loved  me  to  distraction. 

HELEN  (conclusively).  Then  he'd  be  good  for 
your  sake. 

MAUDE  (with  the  fervor  of  youth  and  inexper 
ience).  Of  course  he  would.  That's  where  a 
woman's  power  comes  in. 

LOUISE.  You  girls  talk  as  if  a  man  were  a  pli 
able  clay  image. 

HELEN.  Well,  not  exactly  that,  but  pretty 
near  it. 

MAUDE.  I  believe  that  when  a  woman  inspires 
the  right  kind  of  love 

HELEN.    What  is  the  right  kind? 

LOUISE  (solemnly).  Paul  says:  "Men  love " 

MAUDE.  Horrors!  Lou  won't  let  the  least 
shred  of  romance  into  her  views.  Now,  I  want 
my  husband  to  adore  me.  No  matter  how  friv 
olous  I  am,  he  must  consider  me  perfection.  I 
don't  want  to  be  ruled  or  reverenced.  I  just 
want  to  be  loved.  I  want  my  husband  to  be  al 
ways  thinking  about  me,  and  doing  things  for  me 
— hand  me  a  cherry,  Helen.  Fred  Willard  sent 
me  these. — Well,  as  I  was  saying,  I  want  my 
husband  to  be  intellectual  and  handsome ;  and  (as 
an  afterthought)  of  course  he  must  be  good ;  but, 
no  matter  what  else  he  is,  he  must  be  devoted  to 
me.  My  ideal  man  isn't  a  cold-blooded  being,  like 


58 


that  lank  creature  we  met  yesterday  who  goes 
about  doing  good  works.  No!  He's  young  and 
chivalrous  and  patriotic,  and  cultured  and  unsel 
fish 

HELEN.  Do  you  think  he  exists  on  this  poky 
old  planet? 

LOUISE.     The  highest  type  of  man 

MAUDE  (impatiently).  Do  listen  to  Lou!  It 
sounds  like  one  of  Bacon's  essays.  Go  on ! 

LOUISE.  I  don't  ask  for  a  perfect  man ;  but  I  do 
insist  that  he  should  have  fine  instincts.  He 
should  love  Nature  and  Beauty.  He  should  live 
for  other  than  sordid  aims 

MAUDE  (nibbling  a  cherry).  Yes,  indeed!  I 
do  so  hate  a  stingy  man ! 

LOUISE.  And,  when  he  marries,  he  should  seek 
a  woman  to  be  his  companion  and  helpmeet  and 
inspiration.  And  his  children — well,  I  don't  see 
how  a  man  can  be  bad  if  he  has  children ! 

MAUDE.  I  think  Louise  is  cut  out  to  be  a 
spinster  and  deliver  lectures  before  all  sorts  of 
women's  societies  and  associations  and  that  kind 
of  thing — don't  you,  Helen?  Imagine  the  agonies 
a  man  would  have  to  go  through  before  he  could 
understand  her!  What  were  you  going  to  say, 
Helen? 

HELEN.  I  was  going  to  ask  Lou  if  her  ideal 
man  must  be  educated. 

LOUISE.  Well,  not  necessarily.  I  could  love  a 
man  who  had  never  entered  a  college,  if  he  felt 
within  his  soul  the  desire  to  know  and  the  pur 
pose  to  improve,  and  if 

MAUDE.    There  she  goes  again !  That  poor  man ! 

59 


LOUISE.  And  if  I  felt  that  I  was  necessary  to 
the  highest  development  of  his  nature,  and  that 
he  was  necessary  to  mine. 

HELEN.  Seems  to  me,  you  want  to  reduce  mar 
riage  to  a  science.  You'll  take  a  husband  to 
further  your  development,  just  as  you'd  take 
a  tonic  or 

MAUDE.  Oh,  Helen!  How  perfectly  ridicu 
lous! 

HELEN.  Did  you  ever  meet  a  man  that  came  up 
to  your  ideas,  Louise? 

LOUISE  (promptly).  Certainly  not!  When  I  do, 
I'll  marry  him — that  is,  if  he  asks  me. 

MAUDE.    Now,  when  I  marry,  it  will  be 

(At  this  instant  the  clock  strikes  the  hour. 
Maude  is  shocked  into  silence.  Consternation 
lengthens  each  face.  There  is  an  impatient  knock 
ing  at  the  door.  Cries  of  "Time's  up!"  "Let  us 
in!") 

OMNES  (remorsefully,  as  they  grasp  their  neg 
lected  instruments) .  Oh,  girls !  Our  trio ! 

CURTAIN. 


60 


A  COUP-DE-MAIN. 

CHARACTERS. 

MRS.  MORRIS,  a  motherly  sort  of  a  person. 

ALICE  BURROUGHS,  a  New  England  girl  with 
a  despotic  conscience. 

Miss  FANNIE  MEREDITH,  one  of  the  innumer 
able  ephemera,  whose  existence  is  unnaturally 
prolonged  in  California  air. 

MR.  FREDERIC  BENEDICT,  a  young  San  Francisco 
business  man. 

MARION  BENEDICT,  his  cousin. 
The  usual   heterogeneous  assortment   of  invalid 
habitues  of  a  California  boarding-house. 

SCENE:  The  parlor,  after  luncheon.  MRS. 
MORRIS  and  ALICE  BURROUGHS  stand  together 
at  a  window,  looking  out.  MARION  BENEDICT 
bends  over  her  embroidery  frame  near  the  fire, 
while  FRED  roams  restlessly  about  with  his  hands 
in  his  pockets.  Everybody  looks  bored. 

MRS.  MORRIS.  How  it  pours!  So  unlucky  for 
you,  Alice,  to  leave  California  in  the  rain.  It's 
a  bad  sign,  you  know!  Hadn't  you  better  wait? 
But  it  may  clear  by  to-morrow — of  course  it 

61 


will!    You  look  tired,  my  dear;  been  packing? 

ALICE.  I  am  tired.  No,  I  haven't  packed  a 
thing  yet.  I  hate  to  pack;  I  always  put  it  off 
till  the  last  minute.  {Looks  nervously  around.) 
Oh,  Mrs.  Morris,  I  do  so  want  to  speak  to  you — 
confidentially,  you  know — just  for  a  minute. 
How  can  we  get  out  of  hearing  of  these  people? 

MRS.  MORRIS.  I'll  manage  it.  (Loudly.) 
Have  you  seen  what  a  puddle  the  tennis-court  is? 
No?  Come,  look  out.  (They  cross  the  room 
to  an  alcove.)  Now,  dear,  what  is  it? 

ALICE.  Oh,  Mrs.  Morris,  I — you — I  am  so  per 
plexed  !  I  want  you  to  help  me  get  through  the 
rest  of  this  dreadful  day.  Oh,  can't  you  under 
stand  without  my  telling  you? 

MRS.  MORRIS..  Well,  perhaps  if  you'll  give  me 
the  least  little  bit  of  a  hint.  Is  it  about  Fred? 

ALICE.  Oh,  yes !  that's  it !  It's  about  Fr , 

about  Mr.  Benedict.  You  understand?  Oh,  how 
good  you  are !  It  seems  as  if  it  would  kill  me  to 
have  to  say  it!  You'll  help,  me,  won't  you,  dear 
Mrs.  Morris? 

MRS.  MORRIS  (with  enthusiasm).  Why,  of 
course  I  will!  Go  on!  Have  you  quarreled? 

ALICE.  Quarreled?  Oh,  dear,  no!  Surely, 
Mrs.  Morris — Oh,  I'm  afraid  you  don't  under 
stand,  after  all.  You  see,  I'm  going  back  East 
to-morow,  and  I — and  he — Oh,  Mrs.  Morris,  I 
know  he  means  to 

MRS.  MORRIS  (blandly).     Propose? 

ALICE.  Yes — to — yes!  and  I — and  now  it's 
raining,  and  we're  shut  in  here,  and  I 

MRS.  MORRIS.     I  see!     You're  afraid  there  will 


62 


be  no  op 

ALICE.  Horrors!  Mrs.  Morris,  do  you  think 
for  one  minute  that  I  am  capable 

MRS.  MORRIS.  Well,  Alice,  there's  only  one 
way  to  make  this  thing  clear  to  me;  you'll  just 
have  to  speak! 

ALICE  (desperately}.  Well,  I  will  then!  But 
first  you  must  promise  me 

MRS.  MORRIS.    Oh,  I  promise.    Go  on! 

ALICE.  I  hope  you  don't  think — Oh,  Mrs. 
Morris,  I  should  reproach  myself  forever,  if  I 
have  given  anyone  reason  to  think 

MRS.  MORRIS.  There!  Alice  you're  always  re 
proaching  yourself  when  you've  done  nothing 
wrong!  Do  go  on,  dear! 

ALICE.  I'm  so  glad  you  think  I'm  not  to 
blame.  Sometimes  I  feel  as  if — Well,  as  I  was 
saying,  we've  had  a  beautiful  time,  and  now  I'm 
going,  and — he  feels — he  feels 

MRS.  MORRIS.     He  feels  bad. 

ALICE.  Yes !  and  oh,  Mrs.  Morris,  he  keeps — 
I'm  just  sure  he  means  to 

MRS.  MORRIS.     Propose? 

ALICE.  Yes,  and  he  mustn't,  dear  Mrs.  Morris. 
No,  indeed  (firmly)  he  must  not!  I  couldn't 
bear  the  pain  of  refusing  him 

MRS.  MORRIS.  "Refusing  him!"  Alice  Bur 
roughs,  what  are  you  talking  about? 

ALICE.  And  so  I  want  you  to  help  me  to — to 
escape — you  see? — to  keep  him  at  a — a  distance, 
Mrs.  Morris,  just  this  one  day  more! 

MRS.  MORRIS.  But— see  here,  Alice,  I  thought 
you  liked  Fred? 

63 


ALICE  (breathlessly).  And  I  do — like  him; 
indeed  I  do — but — but  you  know  what  my  plans 
are— you  know  that  I  shall  never— that  to  teach 
is  my  life-work.  What  else  did  I  go  through 
college  for? 

MRS.  MORRIS.  Why,  of  course!  You  dear 
little  conscientious  thing!  I  see  now.  You  don't 
want  him  to  pro 

ALICE  (hurriedly).  That's  it!  I  don't  want 
him  to.  I  want  to  spare  him — to  spare  myself 
the  pain  of — Oh,  you  understand,  now,  don't  you, 
Mrs.  Morris? 

FRED  BENEDICT  (approaching  the  alcove).  Tell 
me,  too?  What  are  you  two  scheming  about, 
Miss  Alice? 

ALICE  (incoherently).  Now  I  —  really  —  I 
haven't — I  think  I  must  go.  (Hurries  away.) 

FRED  (savagely  to  Mrs.  Morris).  If  you  weren't 
here,  I'd  swear! 

MRS.  MORRIS.  You  dreadful  boy!  What  are 
you  cross  about? 

FRED.  You  know  that  I  came  over  here  hoping 
to — that  I  didn't  come  over  here  to 

MRS.  MORRIS.  Yes;  I  know  you  didn't  come 
over  here  to  talk  to  me! 

FRED  (contritely).  I  beg  your  pardon,  I  didn't 
mean  to  say  anything  so  rude  as  that,  but  hon 
estly,  Mrs.  Morris,  I  may  as  well  own  up,  for 
you've  seen  through  me  long  ago.  I'm  desperate! 
Miss  Burroughs  leaves  to-morrow 

MRS.  MORRIS.    Yes? 

FRED.  Yes,  and  I  can't — she  won't — Mrs.  Mor 
ns,  I  want  your  help ! 

64 


MRS.  MORRIS.  My  dear  boy,  how  can  I  help 
you? 

FRED.  Just  manage  things  so  I  can  get  four 
minutes  with  Alice;  keep  those  people— I'd  like 
to  exterminate  the  entire  lot! — keep  them  inter 
ested  in  something  or  other.  See?  Great  Scott! 
Why  did  it  rain  to-day  of  all  days?  I  had  it 
all  planned.  I  was  going  to  ask  her  to  let  me 
paddle  her  down  the  canal,  and  then  I  meant 


MRS.  MORRIS.    Propose? 

FRED.  Exactly!  And  I  really  believe  that,  if 
I  once  got  her  cornered — I  know  (exultantly), 
yes,  Mrs.  Morris,  I  know  she — (dubiously)  I 
think  (dejectedly),  I  hope  (weakly)  she — likes 
me! 

MRS.  MORRIS.  I'm  sure  she  does!  (FRED 
grasps  her  hand) — and  so  does  Marion;  and  so 
does  Fanny  Meredith. 

FRED  (explosively).  "Marion!"  "Fanny  Mere 
dith!"  If  it  hadn't  been  for  their  insufferable — 
They're  always  nebbing  in  when  they're  not 
wanted!  Marion  asked  me  to  untangle  her  silk 
for  her  just  now;  and  I  told  her  I  had  the 
(sheepishly)  rheumatism.  Now,  Mrs.  Morris, 
help  me  out!  Think  how  hideous  it  would  be  if 
Alice  should  get  away  before  I 

MARION  BENEDICT  (leaving  her  embroidery). 
Is  Cousin  Fred  telling  you  about  his  rheumatism, 
Mrs.  Morris?  How  miserable  he  looks!  What 
have  you  prescribed,  Pond's  extract?  or  massage? 
or  quinine ?_  We  all  bring  our  troubles  to  you! 

65 


FRED.  She's  going  to  help  me,  aren't  you, 
Mrs.  Morris?  I  feel  better  already! 

MRS.  MORRIS.  Run  away,  Fred,  do!  I  want 
to  talk  to  Marion  about  our  garden  party. 

(ALICE,  who  has  been  covertly  watching  them, 
becomes  suddenly  so  interested  in  the  conversa 
tion  of  the  old  gentleman  on  the  sofa  beside  her 
that  she  seems  not  to  observe  her  lover's 
approach.) 

OLD  GENTLEMAN  (while  FRED  is  waiting  a 
chance  to  get  in  a  word).  And  I  have  never 
regretted  it  from  that  day  to  this!  Such  things 
may  seem  Quixotic,  Miss  Alice — etc.,  etc.,  etc. 

MARION  (to  MRS.  MORRIS).  Never  mind  about 
the  garden  party,  now.  I  want  to  speak  to  you 
about  something  else.  Mrs.  Morris,  have  you 
noticed  how  glum  Cousin  Fred  is  looking? 

MRS.  MORRIS.  Why,  Marion,  I  thought  he  was 
already  looking  the  better  for  his  vacation. 

MARION.  Well,  yes.  But  that  isn't  exactly 
what  I  mean,  Mrs.  Morris;  I  mean,  haven't  you 
noticed  how  blue  he's  been  lately,  and  cross?  He 
nearly  took  my  head  off  a  while  ago!  Haven't 
you  noticed  how  he  goes  mooning  around  after 
Alice  Burroughs — Queer  what  a  fascination  that 
stiff  New  England  girl  has  for  men  isn't  it 
now? — and  looking  Dored  to  death  if  she's  not 
in  the  room? 

MRS.  MORRIS.    Of  course  everybody 

MARION.  That's  just  it!  Everybody  knows  it! 
and  everybody  will  know  it  when  she  refuses 
him !  She's  going  to !  I'm  sure  of  it !  The  cold- 
hearted  thing;  and  I  don't  intend  to  let  him  give 

66 


her  a  chance!  Oh,  Mrs.  Morris,  I'm  furious! 
The  idea  of  any  girl  refusing  Fred !  Now  I  want 
you  to  help  me — you  understand — help  me  to 
keep  them  apart  just  this  one  day  more.  I  can 
do  it  with  your  help;  we'll  have  to  be  regular 
diplomats,  though,  or  Fred  will  suspect  us. 
Where  is  he  now?  Of  course!  He's  hanging 
over  her,  waiting  for  a  chance  to  speak.  Don't 
let  him  catch  us  looking,  or  he'll  suspect.  Well, 
now,  I  was  going  to  suggest — etc.,  etc.,  etc. 

OLD  GENTLEMAN  (still  talking  to  ALICE).  It 
was  a  touching  scene,  I  assure  you,  Miss  Alice; 
it  brought  tears  to  every  eye!  Accustomed  as  I 
am  to 

FRED  (with  a  jocularity  he  doesn't  feel).  Cheer 
ful  weather  for  your  trip,  Miss  Alice!  If  this 
rain  keeps  up,  I'll  have  to  take  you  to  the  station 
in  my  canoe!  Wouldn't  that  be  jolly?  (Emits 
a  theatrical  laugh.) 

OLD  GENTLEMAN  (suppressing  a  sniff  of  resent 
ment,  and  determined  not  to  be  outdone}.  The 
skies  are  weeping  over  your  departure,  eht  Miss 
Alice? 

ALICE  (quite  overcome}.    Oh,  really 

FRED.  By  the  way  (to  old  gentleman}— er — 
how  did  you  happen  to  get  beaten  in  that  game 
last  night?  I  heard  the  Professor  boasting  at 
breakfast  this  morning 

OLD  GENTLEMAN  (in  a  rage}.  Boasting?  Boast 
ing?  I'll  go  challenge  him  this  minute!  We'll 
see  who'll  do  the  boasting  to-day!  (FRED 
promptly  occupies  the  vacated  seat.  ALICE  looks 


67 


toward  MRS.  MORRIS  and  seems  disposed  to  fly.) 

FRED  {with  determination).    Miss  Alice 

ALICE  (shivering).  Oh,  how  cold  it  is!  (Ris 
ing.)  I  think  I  really  must  get  my  shawl. 

FRED.    Let  me  get  it  for  you,  Alice. 

ALICE  (sitting  down  again).  Ah,  thank  you, 
Mr.  Benedict;  you'll  find  it  in  the  hall.  I'm  so 
cold! 

FRED  (solus).  Cold,  I  should  say  she  is  cold! 
A  regular  iceberg!  (He  returns  to  find  ALICE 
deep  in  conversation  with  his  cousin.) 

ALICE  (frigidly).  Thank  you,  Mr.  Benedict. 
Aren't  you  cold,  Marion?  Shall  I  invite  you 
under  my  shawl  ? 

FRED  (with  desperate  eagerness).  Let  me  carry 
a  chair  over  to  the  fire  for  you,  Marion. 

MARION  (sweetly).  You're  so  kind!  but  I'm 
quite  comfortable  here  beside  Alice.  (FRED  re 
sumes  his  peregrinations,  while  the  two  girls 
make  conversation,  and  the  chess  contest  gets  well 
under  way.  Enter  Miss  FANNIE  MEREDITH,  who 
wears  a  trailing  tea-gown  literally  streaming  with 
ribbons,  and  a  pair  of  gilt-embroidered  harem 
slippers.  She  is  followed  by  MR.  MORTIMER  PEM- 
BERTON,  an  elderly  and  dec.repit,  but  otherwise 
eligible,  widower,  who  carries  her  shawl  and  fan 
and  smelling  salts  and  balsam  pillow.) 

Miss  MEREDITH.  How  doleful  everyone  looks! 
Is  it  the  weather,  or  those  chicken  croquettes  f 
Or  is  it  because  Alice  is  going?  (She  sinks  into 
a  deep,  easy  chair,  and  relieves  her  burdened 
escort.) 

MR.   MORTIMER  PEMBERTON.     They  needed  the 

68 


sunshine  of  your  presence,  Miss  Meredith. 

FRED  (having  drifted  to  ALICE'S  side).  What 
a  sentimental  youth  old  Pern  is! 

ALICE.    I  hate  sentimental  people. 

FRED  (mentally).  That's  a  pointer  for  me! 
(Audibly.)  Miss  Meredith  doesn't!  She  and 
Pern  have  been  reading  Swinburne.  If  there's 
anything  I  loathe  it's  Swinburne! 

ALICE.  I  love  Swinburne!  What  were  you 
saying,  Marion? 

FRED  (approaching  MRS.  MORRIS.).  You're  not 
helping  me!  Why  didn't  you  keep  her  here  with 
you? 

MRS.  MORRIS.    Keep  who?  Alice? 

FRED.  Why,  Marion,  of  course !  Just  as  I  was 
getting  ready  to 

MRS.  MORRIS.     Propose? 

FRED.  Come,  now ;  help  me  out.  You  said 
you'd  help  me  out!  What  shall  I  do?  Suggest 
something ! 

MRS.  MORRIS.  Suppose  you  ask  Marion  to  play 
one  of  those  interminable  things  she's  so  fond 
of — concertos,  fugues,  sonatas — What  does  she 
call  them?  That  will  get  her  out  of  the  way. 

FRED.    Capital!    You  ask  her. 

MRS.  MORRIS.  No;  that  won't  do.  You  must 
ask  her.  She  might  suspect  me.  Just  go  over, 
and  say  in  your  natural  easy  manner,  "Won't 
you  play  something  for  me,  Marion?"  or  some 
thing  like  that. 

FRED.  She's  suspicious  already!  I  saw  her 
eyeing  us  a  while  ago.  What's  the  longest  thing 
she  plays? 

69 


MRS.  MORRIS.  I'm  sure  I  don't  know.  Leave 
that  to  Providence.  They're  all  long  enough. 

FIRST  OLD  GENTLEMAN  (over  the  chess-board). 
Ha!  There!  Now  will  you  be  good?  (FRED 
crosses  to  MARION.  They  talk.  He  leads  her  to 
piano.)  That  settles  you!  Eh!  Ha,  ha! 

SECOND  OLD  GENTLEMAN.  Not  a  bit  of  it!  Not 
a  bit  of  it! 

FRED  (regaining  the  coveted  seat,  while  MARION 
plays  the  Moonlight  Sonata).  Do  you  know, 
Alice,  I'm 

ALICE  (with  crushing  indifference).  Ah — I 
beg  pardon !  What  were  you  saying,  Mr.  Bene 
dict? 

FRED  (miserably).  I'm  sure  I  don't  know! 
When  you  call  me  "Mr.  Benedict"  in  that  formal 
way,  it  completely  upsets  me.  (Tenderly.) 
Alice ! 

ALICE.  How  can  I  listen  to  the  music  if  you 
persist  in  talking  to  me?  (laughing  nervously). 
Aren't  you  rather  rude  not  to  listen,  after  you 
implored  her  to  play? 

FRED.    But  I  want  to  talk  to  you. 

ALICE.  And  I  want  to  listen — to  her.  (She 
assumes  an  air  of  rapt  attention.  FRED  seems 
utterly  crushed.  The  sonata  drags  its  slow  length 
along.) 

FRED  (meekly).  So  I  am  not  to  speak  till  that 
sonata  is  ended? 

ALICE.    Certainly  not! 

FRED.  Have  I  offended  you — er — Miss  Bur 
roughs.  (Apparently  Miss  Burroughs  does  not 
hear. ) 


70 


FRED.  I  merely  wanted  to  ask  about  your  plans 
for  the — for  teaching.  Where  do  you  expect  to — 
teach? 

ALICE  (mollified).  Well,  I  really  haven't 
fully  decided  yet  whether  to  take  a  position  in 
a  young  ladies'  school  or  to  go  into  College  Set 
tlement  work;  but  I  shall  certainly  do  one  or  the 
other. 

FRED.  Your — your  mind  is  made  up?  (Tremu 
lously.  )  Alice  ? 

ALICE  (uncompromisingly').  My  mind  is 
made  up. 

FRED.  And  what — (plaintively),  Alice,  what  is 
to  become  of  me?  (ALICE  becomes  suddenly 
deaf,  save  to  MARION'S  music.) 

FRED.    Alice  ? 

ALICE.  What  magnificent  technique!  (Loudly.) 
Miss  Meredith,  isn't  that  crescendo  exquisite? 

FRED.  Indeed,  Miss  Meredith  I  hope  you 
noticed  that  exquisite  crescendo!  See  here, 
Alice,  I  wish  you  would — (the  Moonlight  Sonata 
comes  to  an  untimely  end,  with  a  discordant 
crash,  as  MARION  rises  suddenly  and  hurls  her 
self  across  the  room  to  ALICE.) 

MRS.  MORRIS.    Why,  what  is  the  matter,  child? 

MARION.  It's  no  use !  I  can't  play  to-day !  I've 
been  simply  butchering  poor  Beethoven!  Get  up, 
Fred !  I  want  to  sit  beside  Alice !  (As  she  cud 
dles  under  the  shawl.)  I  hope  I'm  not  inter 
rupting  anything  important? 

FRED  (dispossessed  yet  dauntless).  Oh,  no; 
nothing  important.  I  was  just  asking  Miss  Bur 
roughs  to  marry  me. 


71 


OMNES.    What!! 

FRED.    I  said,  I  was  just  asking  Miss  Burroughs 
to  marry  me. 

Miss  MEREDITH  (the  first  to  recover).    And — 
are  we  to — congratulate  you,  Mr.  Benedict? 

FRED.    Ask  Alice! 

CURTAIN. 


72 


A  LITTLE  COMPANY. 

CHARACTERS  . 

DOROTHEA  CHURCHILL,  a  young  widow. 

PHILIP  DICKSON,  her  friend. 

AMY  BOYNTON,  Dorothea's  cousin,  for  whom 
the  little  company  is  given. 

BRUCE  ANDERSON,  a  newly-Hedged  M.  D. 

MR.  LAURANCE  HENDRICKS,  MAJOR  ALVERTON, 
MRS.  GRAHAM,  and  others. 

SCENE — DOROTHEA'S  home.  Hall  with  stair.  Dou 
ble  parlors  with  sliding  doors.  Modern  furnish 
ings — Oriental  rugs,  odd  chairs,  etc.  Window  seats 
piled  with  cushions  and  skins.  Shelves  burdened 
with  curios  over  windows  and  doors.  Pictures 
innumerable  on  the  rough  plaster  walls.  Guests 
are  assembling.  A  Babel  of  voices  rises  from 
groups  in  conversation.  Before  the  fireplace  stand 
AMY  and  DR.  BRUCE  ANDERSON. 

DR.  BRUCE  ANDERSON.  I  should  think  it  would 
be  great  fun.  How  did  your  cousin  happen  to 
think  of  it? 

AMY.  Well,  she  wanted  to  have  some  sort  of 
a  little  company  for  me,  and  she's  not  really  en- 

73 


tertaining  yet,  you  know—and  musicales  are  so 
stupid,  and  receptions  are  too  formal.  I  hate 
cards,  and  a  dancing  party  would  have  been  too 
gay. 

DR.  ANDERSON.    Too  gay?    Why? 

AMY.  How  stupid  you  are!  You  know  that 
her— that  she— that  Dorothea  hasn't  been  a  widow 
long  enough — why,  it  would  be  simply  dreadful 
for  her  to  give  a  dancing  party  now.  She  has 
just  taken  off  crepe! 

DR.  ANDERSON.  Oh,  I  see.  And  when  one  has 
just  taken  off  crepe  one  must  not  think  of  any 
thing  so  violently  gay  as  dancing;  while  dumb 
crambo,  real  mild 

AMY.  How  can  you  joke  about  such  serious 
things?  Perhaps  if  you  were  a  widow 

DR.  ANDERSON.  If  I  were  as  charming  a  widow 
as  Dorothea 

AMY.    Hush,  they're  ready ! 

(The  sliding  doors  are  opened  to  reveal  five 
characters  engaged  in  a  wild  pantomime,  trying 
to  act  ef something  to  rhyme  with  my.") 

CHORUS  OF  SPECTATORS.  No;  it  isn't  "fly"! 
(Doors  close.) 

AMY.  That  was  clever,  wasn't  it?  How  ridicu 
lous  Major  Alverton  looked! 

DR.  ANDERSON.  He  always  does.  He  prides 
himself  upon  it!  And  Mrs.  Graham!  I  never 
dreamed  she  could  be  so  funny!  Let's  see,  what 
were  we  talking  about? 

AMY.    About  Dorothea.    Isn't  she  lovely? 

DR.  ANDERSON.   Phil  Dickson  seems  to  think  so ! 


74 


AMY.  Oh!  (After  an  agitated  silence.)  You 
think  he  is  in  love  with  her?  Poor  fellow! 

DR.  ANDERSON.  Why  "poor  fellow"?  I  thought 
you  thought  Dorothea  was  a  perfect 

AMY.  I  do!  She  is!  She  is  perfectly  lovely! 
But — it  is  too  bad  for — for  Mr.  Dickson.  Doro 
thea  will  never  marry  again !  Her  heart  is  buried 
with  her  husband  (solemnly) ;  she  told  me  so. 

DR.  ANDERSON.  She  did?  Did  she  tell  you 
that?  (After  another  agitated  silence.)  When? 

AMY.    Why,  the  day  after— the  day 

DR.  ANDERSON.  The  day  after  the  funeral?  Of 
course!  But  she's  had  time  to — to  sort  of 
recover  it — exhume  it,  so  to  speak,  don't  you 
think? 

AMY  (indignantly.)  No,  indeed!  You,  needn't 
think  just  because  Dorothea  tries  to  be  cheerful 
and — and  all  that,  that  she  is  reconciled.  No, 
indeed!  I  hate  second  marriages. 

DR.  ANDERSON.    Yes,  but 

AMY.  No ;  you  can  never  convince  me ! 
Dorothea  wouldn't  think  of  marrying;  not  even 
Mr.  Dickson. 

DR.  ANDERSON  (expressively).  Oh!  Dickson! 
But  perhaps 

AMY.  Oh,  here  comes  Larry  Hendricks!  I 
haven't  seen  him  since  he  went  on  to  school  last 
fall.  (Smiles  radiantly.) 

DR.  ANDERSON  (in  his  heart).  Confound 
Larry  Hendricks! 

LARRY.  Room  on  that  hearth  for  me  ?  Thanks, 
Bruce,  I  think  I'll  squeeze  in  next  to  Amy.  And 
how's  Amy?  What  a  grown-up  person  she's  got 

75 


to  be!  Trailing  skirts,  and  a  coiffiure,  by  Jove! 
(Scans  her  from  top  to  toe.)  I  say,  Miss  Boyn- 
ton,  where  are  the  long  curls  I  used  to  pull? 
Where's  the  girl  I  romped  with  last  summer? 

AMY.  And  where's  the  boy  I  quarreled  with  a 
year  ago?  How  a  mustache  changes  a — a  man! 
(Gasing  at  him  through  her  lorgnette.)  I  don't 
like  it  at  all! 

LARRY.  You  don't  like  it?  And  have  I  spent 
a  year,  a  whole  year — (Dismal  waitings  are  heard 
and  the  doors  part  to  show  the  distracted  fivi 
striving  to  suggest  something  else  to  rhyme  with 
"my".) 

CHORUS  OF  CONVULSED  SPECTATORS.  No!  It 
Isn't  "cry"!  (Doors  close.) 

AMY.  Oh,  how  killing !  Did  you  ever  hear 
anything  so  dreadful?  It  sounded  like  Dante's 
Inferno ! 

LARRY.  Did  you  see  Judge  Graham?  His  face 
was  postitively  purple!  He'd  have  gone  into 
apoplexy  in  another  minute. 

DR.  ANDERSON.  Pity  they  didn't  keep  it  up! 
The  Judge  would  make  such  an  interesting  post 
mortem. 

AMY  (with  elaborate  politeness).  Doctor 
Anderson,  if  you  could,  without  too  great  an 
effort,  spare  us  these  allusions  to  (shuddering) 
exhumations  and  post-mortems  and  other  purely 
professional  subjects.  I — I  think 

DR.  ANDERSON  (meekly).  I  beg  your  pardon, 
I'm  sure.  Let's  see,  what  were  we  talking  about? 

AMY.     About     Dorothea     and     Mr.     Dickson, 

76 


and— second  marriages. 

LARRY    (eagerly).     You  don't  mean  it?     Is  it 
announced?     Shall  I  go  congratulate  them? 
AMY  and  DR.  ANDERSON  (as  one  voice).    No! 
DR.   ANDERSON    (clutching  LARRY'S  arm).     Be 
still,  man!     (Fiercely)   Be  still!     Have  you  no — 
Most  absurd  thing  I  ever  'heard  of!     What  put 
such  a  notion  into  your  head?     Dorothea  and — 
cr — Dickson  !      (Laughing   miserably.)      Ha!   ha! 
eh,  Amy? 

AMY.     Of  course!    Ha!  ha!  perfectly  absurd! 
Dorothea  hates  second  marriages ! 
LARRY.    Oh,  well  now,  you  know,  old  Churchill 
as    rather    a — a    chump.      Can't    expect    Doro- 

hea 

AMY.  This  is  gossip!  I  detest  gossip!  Let's 
alk  about  something  else.  Do  look  at  that 
iuperb  bit  of  Indian  pottery.  Dorothea  got  it 

ast 

(Doors  open  to  disclose  the  back  parlor  con 
verted  into  an  impromptu  banquet  hall.) 

CHORUS   OF   SPECTATORS.     Oh,   they've  guessed 
t!      That's)    it!      It's    pie.      (Doors    close    amid 
frantic  applause.     Enter   DOROTHEA,  flushed  and 
jueary  after  her  exertions  in  the  pantomime,  with 
PHILIP  DICKSON,  fanning  indefatigably.) 
DOROTHEA.     Yes,   it  was  fun;   but  such  work! 
hope  the  other  side  will  have  to  work  as  hard! 
3ut,  then,  nothing  can  tire  Amy  and  Larry  Hen- 
iricks;  they're  still  in  the  youthfully  effervescent 
itage.    Aren't  you  tired,  too? 
PHILIP  DICKSON.    Yes ;  tired  waiting. 
DOROTHEA.     Waiting  ? 

77 


PHILIP  DICKSON.  Yes;  waiting  for  a  chance 

to  talk  to  you.  Dorothea,  I (LARRY  HEN- 

DRICKS  squeezes  through  a  crack  between  the 
doors,  and  approaches  DOROTHEA.  They  whisper 
together.) 

PHILIP  DICKKSON  (in  his  heart).  Confound 
Larry  Hendricks! 

DOROTHEA.  All  right,  Larry;  just  run  up  stairs 
to  the  front  chamber.  The  maid  will  show  you 
the  way  and  give  you  all  you  need.  Wait!  I'll 
go  with  you.  (To  MR.  DICKSON.).  You'll  excuse 
me? 

PHILIP  DICKSON.  No,  I  insist  that  you're  too 
tired  to  climb  those  stairs,  now.  Let  Larry  go 
alone.  He  can  manage  without  you. 

DOROTHEA.  I  am  tired.  Well,  Larry  dear, 
you'll  not  mind  going  without  me?  Good  boy! 
(Exit  LARRY.) 

PHILIP  DICKSON  presuming  the  thread  of  his 
discourse).  I'm  not  going  to  wait  any  longer. 
You  made  me  play  the  jackanapes  in  your  panto 
mime,  and  you  promised  to  listen  when  we  were 
through.  Now,  you've  got  things  going  nicely, 
and  all  these  people  are  comfortable  and  happy; 
and  it's  my  turn.  I  shall  not  tolerate  another 
interruption  till  I've  said  my  say.  Dorothea 

DR.  BRUCE  ANDERSON  (who  has  approached 
unobserved).  Excuse  me,  but  we  are  planning 
such  a  stunning  scene,  and  I  just  must  consult 
Mrs.  Churchill.  I  say,  Phil,  what's  wrong?  Got 
a  pain  somewhere?  Let  me  prescribe  for  you. 
Go  take 

PHILIP  DICKSON.        Thanks!      I'm    all    right 

78 


When  I  need  your  professional  services,  Doctor 
Anderson,  I'll  let  you  know. 

DR.  ANDERSON  (to  Dorothea').  Have  you  such 
a  thing  as  a  (whispers') 

DOROTHEA.  Certainly!  I'll  get  it  for  you. 
(Rising.) 

PHILIP  DICKSON.  I  protest!  Doctor,  your 
own  judgment  will  tell  you  that  Mrs.  Churchill 
must  rest.  She's  tired  out !  Can't  someone  else 
attend  to  this?  Besides,  I  want  to  talk  to  her. 

DOROTHEA.  Well,  I  am  tired.  Possibly  Amy 
might  find  it  for  you,  Doctor.  Just  ask  her  to 
show  you  the  way  to  the  attic. 

PHILIP  DICKSON  (impressively,  while  AMY  and 
DR.  ANDERSON  climb  the  stairs).  Dorothea, 
do  you — think  it's  quite  the  proper  thing  to — to 
send  those  two — er — effervescing  young  people 
off  to  the  attic  together? 

DOROTHEA  (with  dignity).  If  you  were  not 
an  old  friend,  Mr.  Dickson,  I  should — I  should 

really But  perhaps  you're  right.  Amy  is 

here  in  my  charge.  I  suppose  I  had  better  go 
up  to  the  attic  with  them,  after  all! 

PHILIP  DICKSON.  Then  I'll  go  with  you,  and 
present  my  petition  on  the  way! 

II. 

SCENE:  The  Attic.  AMY,  carrying  her  drap 
eries  in  one  hand,  a  candle  in  the  other,  and 
closely  followed  by  DR.  BRUCE  ANDERSON,  is  con 
scientiously  exploring  the  shadowy  corners, 
though  with  a  rather  preoccupied  air.  DR.  ANDER 
SON  looks  impatient  and  nervous. 

79 


AMY.  Queer  what's  become  of  the  horrid  old 
thing!  I've  seen  it  lumbering  around  here  doz 
ens  of  times  when  I  had  no  use  for  it!  (Petu 
lantly.)  Why  couldn't  Dorothea  come  for  it 
herself? 

DR.  ANDERSON.  That's  what  I  want  to  know* 
She'd  have  come  but  for  Dickson's  officiousness. 
Odd  what  an  interest  he  takes  in  her — eh? 
Assumes  quite  an  air  of  authority,  by  Jove! 
As  if 

AMY.    Does  he?     (Anxiously.)     Do  you  think 
— Oo-oo-ooh,  how  I  hate  to  visit  an  attic  at  night, 
especially  with  a  grewsome  medical   student  fo 
company.     I'm  really  nervous. 

DR.    ANDERSON.      "Grewsome" !      I    like    that 
"Medical   student"!     I'm  a  practicing  physician, 
Miss  Boynton!     So  you  think  (hesitating)  sh< 
you  think  Dorothea  will  never  marry  again? 

AMY.  Never!  (Hesitating.)  I— I— Doctor 
do — do  you  really  think  he — do  you  really  thin 
Mr.  Dickson  is  in  love  with  her? 

DR.  ANDERSON.  Of  course  he  is !  (Forlornly. 
Who  isn't? 

AMY.  Oh!  So  you  are  in  love  with  her  too 
Why,  she's  older  than  you. 

DR.  ANDERSON  (intensely).  What  do  two  paltrj 
years  and  seven  months  amount  to,  when  a  man' 
in  love?  Hold  that  candle  a  little  higher,  please 
Amy;  I  want  to  look  behind  this  box. 

AMY  (holding  the  candle  aloft  at  an  obliqu< 
angle,  while  DR.  ANDERSON  grovels  below).  Wei 
of  course,  if  you're  in  love  with  her,  you  natu 
rally  suppose  every  other  man  is:  men  alway 

80 


do  that  way.    So  that  goes  to  prove  that  Ph— that 
Mr.  Dickson 

DR.  ANDERSON.  Ouch!  You're  spattering  me 
with  candle  wax! 

AMY.  Oh!  Am  I?  Excuse  me.  (Cheer 
fully.)  Why,  do  you  know,  Bruce,  marriage  is 
so  far  from  Dorothea's  thoughts  that  she— she 
actually  thinks  that  he— that  Mr.  Dickson  is  in 
love  with  me!  (Laughs  with  suspicious  hearti 
ness.)  Isn't  that  funny? 

DR.  ANDERSON  (laughing).  Why,  he's  fifteen 
years  older  than  you!  Old  enough  to  be— shows 
hdw  little  she  cares  for  him,  though  (hopefully), 
doesn't  it? 

AMY  (lowering  her  candle,  with  a  gesture  of 
disgust).  Let's  give  it  up!  We'll  never  find  it. 
They  can  manage  the  scene  someway  without  it. 
They'll  be  tired  waiting  for  us.  (Peremptorily.) 
I  want  to  go  down  stairs ! 

DR.  ANDERSON  (artfully).  I'll  tell  you!  I'll 
wait  up  here  and  you  go  down  and  send  Dorothea 
up  to  help  me  out.  Do !  I  want  to  get  her  away 
from  Dickson.  That's  what  I  proposed  coming 
up  here  for:  I  thought  of  course  she'd  have  to 
come  with  me.  Confound  him!  He  may  be 
making  love  to  her  this  minute.  Get  her  away 
some  how  or  other. 

AMY  (with  something  like  a  groan).  Do  you 
think  so?  O-ooh !  Well!  (Suddenly.)  I'll  stop 
it!  Dorothea  shall  ne-ver  marry  again  with  my 
consent!  I  hate  second  marriages!  Don't  be 
uneasy,  Doctor  Anderson  (fiercely),  I'll  sep 
arate  them!  You  come  light  me  down  the 

81 


stairs.  I — I  wouldn't  go  down  those  stairs  in 
the  dark  for  anything!  O-ooh!  What's  that? 
(Sounds  of  footsteps  climbing  the  stairs.) 

DOROTHEA  (from  below).  Amy!  Are  you 
there?  We're  coming.  (Emerging  with  candle, 
followed  by  PHILIP  DICKSON.)  Can't  you  find 
it?  Why,  how  queer  you  two  look!  For  all  the 
world  like  a  couple  of  conspirators.  Don't  they, 
Phil.' 

AMY  (confusedly).  I  was  just  coming  down 
to — to  ask  you  to  come  up  to  help  Dr.  Anderson 
out. 

DOROTHEA.    Out  of  what?    I  hope 

AMY.    I  mean — I  can't — he  can't — we  can't 
it  anywhere. 

DOROTHEA.  How  cold  it  is  up  here!  N 
wonder  poor  Amy  is  shivering!  I  am  surpris 
that  Dr.  Anderson  would  permit  her  to  risk 
taking  cold.  Phil,  you  take  Amy  down  stairs, 
please?  There's  a  register  on  the  first  landing 
where  she  can  get  warm.  We'll  follow  you  in 
five  minutes.  (Significantly.)  Just  five  min 
utes!  Look  right  over  there  by  the  dormer  win 
dow,  Bruce.  There  it  is!  Odd  you  couldn't 
find  it.  What  have  you  been  thinking  of? 

DR.  ANDERSON  (emphatically,  but  in  an  under 
tone).  Of  you! 

III. 

SCENE:  On  the  stairs.  AMY  and  PHIL,  are 
descending. 

PHIL  (halting  mid-way).  Are  you  cold,  Amy? 
You  look  positively  ill!  I  hope  nothing— noth 
ing 

82 


AMY  (nerving  herself  for  an  act  of  heroic  self- 
abnegation).  Mr.  Dickson,  I — you — if  you  (with 
a  gasp),  if  you  love  my  cousin  Dorothea,  as  of 
course  we  all  know  you  do,  I  think  you  had 
better  give  me  that  candle  and  go  right  back 
upstairs.  Dr.  Bruce  Anderson  is  proposing  to 
her  this  minute! 

PHIL.  Let  Dr.  Bruce  Anderson  propose!  He 
is  giving  me  the  opportunity  I  want.  Amy,  I 
have  Dorothea's  permission  to  ask  you  to  marry 
me.  Will  you,  dear? 

AMY  (beginning  to  cry).  Oo-ooh,  Phil! 
(DOROTHEA  and  DR.  ANDERSON  appear  above,  as 
PHIL,  takes  AMY  in  his  arms-) 

DOROTHEA  \ 

AND  I       (pointing).     Oh,  Phil! 

DR.   ANDERSON        ) 


CURTAIN. 


S3 


THIS  SORDID  WORLD. 

CHARACTERS. 

MRS  JERROLD  WOUVERMAN — Who  writes. 

FLOYD-FABIAN — Who  does  sheep  pictures. 

WINIFRED  HOLLOWAY — Who  does  vers  de  so- 
ciete. 

BENNY  BENEDICT — Dramatic  critic  for  the  Ar 
gus. 

MR.  JAMES  SESSIONS,  JR. — Who  does  nothing- 

MR.  JERROLD  WOUVERMAN — Mrs.  Wouverman's 
husband. 

JEANNE — Mr.  J  err  old   Wouverman's  sister. 

SCENE — There  is  a  glowing  fire  on  MRS.  JER 
ROLD  WOUVERMAN'S  hospitable  hearth-stone.  Be 
fore  it  sit  two  girls,  WINIFRED  and  JEANNE,  with 
a  chocolate  pot  on  a  bandy-legged  table  between 
them — sipping,  while  they  chat,  from  fragile  cups 
which  require  frequent  re-filling.  WINIFRED 
wears  a  smart  tailor-made  street  suit,  and  a  pic 
turesque  hat  weighted  with  plumes.  JEANNE,  in  a 
loose  gown  of  some  silky  crepey  stuff,  is  playing 
hostess,  in  the  absence  of  her  brother's  wife.  The 

84 


lace  frilling,  which  falls  to  her  finger-tips  and 
is  visible  beneath  the  slashed  hem  of  her  trailing 
skirt,  drops  in  a  creamy  cascade  from  her  slender 
throat  to  her  slender  suede-slippered  feet.  She 
looks  deliciously  fresh  and  rosy  in  contrast  with 
her  friend,  who  is  possibly  three  years  (tense,  try 
ing,  youth-destroying  years)  her  senior.  The 
time  is  early  spring,  near  the  close  of  an  after 
noon;  and  the  long  rays  of  sunlight  stretch  across 
the  room.  There  are  flowers — cut  flowers, 
JEANNE'S  perishable  trophies  of  conquest — in  jars 
and  vases  everywhere;  and  she  wears  a  big  bunch 
of  violets  on  her  breast. 

WINIFRED.  How  cosy  this  is!  It's  good  to  be 
quiet.  ...  I  hope  no  one  will  come  in. 

JEANNE  (impulsively).  Oh,  don't  say  that, 
Winifred! 

WINIFRED.  No?  .  .  .  I  see!  You're  ex 
pecting  someone. 

JEANNE  (bending  to  catch  the  odor  of  her  vio 
lets).  No!  That  is— not  exactly  expecting— 
(flushing  under  WINIFRED'S  quizzical  glance), 
Not  at  all!  What  are  you  smiling  at,  Winifred? 
.  .  .  I — I  did  think  perhaps  someone,  perhaps 
Floyd-Fabian,  might  come  in.  ...  He  said, 
perhaps 

WINIFRED.  I  understand!  Well  then,  I  hope 
he'll  take  his  time  about  coming.  Fill  my  cup, 
please,  Jeanne. 

JEANNE  (pouring).  Have  you  seen  his  new 
picture?  (WINIFRED  nods).  Lovely  isn't  it?  I 
just  love 

85 


WINIFRED  (mischievously).  Floyd-Fabian?  Fie! 

JEANNE  (with  dignity).  Floyd-Fabian's  pic 
tures.  ...  I  think  his  sheep  are  wonderful ! 

WINIFRED.  They're — just  sheep.  (After  a  pause). 
Jeanne,  I  envy  you !  You're  a  lucky  girl.  How 
sweet  you  look  in  that  gown;  it  makes  me  think 
of  sea  foam.  Well  (putting  down  her  cup),  if 
someone  is  coming  to  disturb  me,  I  suppose  I'd 
better  go.  I  ought  to  show  myself  at  two  more 
places  this  afternoon. 

JEANNE.  Oh,  wait  a  little — till  someone  comes. 
Why  do  you  think  I'm  lucky?  Seems  to  me  I 
deserve  a  little  good  time  after  the  way  I  slaved 
last  year.  A  girl's  last  year  in  school  is  some 
thing  frightful — a  perfect  drive  ! 

WINIFRED.  It's  nothing  to  her  first  year  out — 
as  you'll  discover  shortly.  I  was  nearly  dead  at 
the  end  of  my  first  season.  Nearly  dead  and 
completely  disillusioned. 

JEANNE.  I  thank  Heaven  I've  no  illusions  to 
lose! 

WINIFRED.  Oh,  of  course!  That's  the  way  we 
all  felt.  Just  wait  till  the  winter's  over. 

JEANNE.  Well,  anyway,  if  I  do  find  things  a 
trifle  disappointing,  I'll  not  write  cynical  verses 
about  it!  (Severely)  I  think  that  last  thing  of 
yours  is  simply  dreadful! 

WINIFRED   (serenely).    I'm  crushed! 

JEANNE.  I'd  rather  die  than  be  such  a — pessi 
mist.  (Intensely).  I'd  rather  do  gushing  namby- 
pamby  love  stories,  like  Jerry's  wife,  than  the 
sort  of  thing  you  write! 

WINIFRED  (sipping  complacently).    Yes? 

86 


JEANNE.  Don't  be  so  frivolous,  Winifred!  I 
mean  it!  I  don't  see  how  you  can  write  them! 
I  don't  believe  that  the  world  is  a  bore,  and  that 

people  are  all  insincere,  and 

WINIFRED.     My  dear,  neither  do  I ! 

JEANNE.  Then  why  do  you  say  so  in  that — 
what  is  it? 

WINIFRED.  It's  a  rondeau,  my  child;  a  very 
bad  one,  I'll  admit  to  you  in  confidence,  but  the 
editor  liked  it,  if  you  didn't.  I'm  getting  so  I 
know  pretty  well  what  the  editors  like!  Still,  I 
only  got  seven  dollars  for  that  "dreadful"  thing. 

JEANNE.  I  hope  you  don't  care  for  the  money, 
Winifred ! 

WINIFRED.  What?  .  .  .  Oh,  yes  I  do! 
Why,  that  rondeau  bought  me  tickets  for  the 
Sagitari  Chopin  recitals;  and  the  verses  you 
scolded  me  about  last  week  paid  for  a  pair  of 
long  suede  gloves;  and  if  I  could  only  think  of 
something  "dreadful"  enough  and  cynical  enough, 
I  might  earn  the  price  of 

JEANNE  (imploringly).  Oh,  Winifred,  don't! 
You — you  hurt  me !  If  I  had  your  gift — if  I 
were  a  poet 

WINIFRED  (laughing).  Spare  me!  I'm  not  a 
poet!  I'm  a  dealer  in  verse. 

JEANNE.     Oh,  Winifred — that's  simply 

WINIFTED  (tolerantly).  My  dear,  I  know  your 
point  of  view.  Perfectly!  I  thought  everything 
practical  was  dreadful,  too,  when  I  was  your 
age.  I'm  wiser  now!  (Thoughtfully).  When 
I  was  your  age !  .  .  .  A  century  ago !  (Sigh 
ing).  I've  learned  a  deal  in  the  last  three  years! 

87 


And  if  what  I  hear  is  true,  about  Mr.  James  Ses 
sions,  Jr.,  and  his  attentions  to  a  certain  rose-bud 
friend  of  mine,  it's  time  you  were  getting  worldly- 
wise  too,  Jeannie,  dear! 

JEANNE  (reddening  to  her  ears).  Who  told 
you  ?  Jerry  ? 

WINIFRED.  Take  my  advice,  my  child:  accept 
him  at  once!  (As  JEANNE  shakes  her  head).  I 
know  it's  hard  to  relinquish  the  delights  of  a 
couple  of  free  seasons  (though,  as  far  as  that 
goes,  a  girl's  really  freer  after  she's  married 
nowadays!);  but  just  consider  that  in  three  years 
you'd  be  where  I  am  now.  I  refused  a  certain 
rich  young  man  when  I  was  a  rose-bud.  Woe  is 
me! 

JEANNE.     Winifred,  you  don't  mean  it! 

WINIFRED.     You  think  I  didn't? 

JEANNE.  Now  you  know  I  don't  mean  that! 
I'm  sure  you  refused  several  rich  young  men. 
But  I  don't  believe  you're  sorry  you  did  it ! 

WINIFRED.  Yes  I  am;  dreadfully  sorry!  If  I 
had  it  to  do  over  again,  I'd  say  "yes"  in  a  min 
ute, — in  half  a  minute !  But  I'll  never  have  it 
to  do  over  again.  (Vents  a  melo-dramatic  sigh) 
My  golden  opportunity  is  gone  by!  I  shall  end 
by  marrying  Benny  Benedict,  and  setting  up  an 
establishment  in  Bohemia.  I  know  it ! 

JEANNE  (scanning  her  face).  I  wish  I  could 
tell  when  you  are  in  earnest!  .  .  .  I'm  quite 
sure  you're  making  believe. 

(Enter  FLOYD-FABIAN.) 

FLOYD-FABIAN  (as  both  girls  rise).  Don't 
move!  (He  catches  sight  of  the  -violets  on 
JEANNE'S  breast,  and  they  smile  as  their  eyes 


meet).  What  a  good  time  you're  having — a  syb 
aritic  tete-a-tete!  (They  all  sit).  What  were 
you  talking  about? 

WINIFRED.  Oh,  Jeanne— Saint  Jeanne— was 
scorning  me  for  writing  verses  for  money ;  and 
I  was  advising  her  to  get  a  rich  husband 

JEANNE  (eagerly).  I'm  so  glad  you  happened 
in! 

WINIFRED    (aside).    ''Happened!" 

JEANNE  (continuing).  You'll  agree  with  me, 
I'm  sure,  about  Winifred's  verses 

WINIFRED.  And  with  me  about  Jeanne's  rich 
husband 

FLOYD-FABIAN.  I'll  agree  with  both  of  you,  if 
you'll  give  me  a  cup  of — what  is  it?  Chocolate? 

WINIFRED.  Yes — delicious,  too!  (JEANNE  fills 
a  cup  for  the  painter).  I  think  I'll  have  another, 
Jeanne.  .  .  .  I'm  a  regular  debauchee,  when 
Jeanne  serves  chocolate ! 

JEANNE.  Then  there  is  one  thing  (pouring) 
that  you  are  still  able  to  enjoy? 

WINIFRED.  One  thing?  Scores  of  things!  I've 
had  a  better  time  than  any  girl  I  know — but  that's 
not  saying  much — poor  things !  What  a  pity  we 
all  couldn't  have  been  men !  Somebody  might  in 
vent  a  paragon  of  a  machine  to  do  the  wife  and 
mother 

JEANNE.     Winifred,  you're  terrible! 

WINIFRED   (to  FLOYD-FABIAN).    Am  I? 

JEANNE   (to  FLOYD- FABIAN).    Isn't  she? 

FLOYD-FABIAN.    I've  promised    to    agree    with 

89 


both  of  you.  (Enter  BENNY  BENEDICT).  Oh, 
here's  Benny!  Leave  it  to  him! 

BOTH  GIRLS  (eagerly).    Oh,  Mr.  Benedict! 

BENNY  (approaching  fire).  I'm  petrified  with 
cold,  and  paralyzed  with  hunger!  Do  give  me  a 
cup  of — what  is  it?  (sniffing).  Eh?  (disappoint 
edly) — not  chocolate? 

JEANNE.  See  how  sorrowful  he  looks!  Utterly 
crushed ! 

WINIFRED  (sipping).  Cheer  up!  It's  delic 
ious!  (While  JEANNE  pours).  Jeanne,  I  think 
— may  I ?  Just  one  more  quarter  of  a  cup ?  How 
many  have  I  had?  Four? 

BENNY  (after  sipping  dubiously).  Tis  good! 
What  a  sweet  surprise!  Some  body  to  this  choc 
olate;  most  of  the  so-called  chocolate  they  ask  a 
fellow  to  drink  is  like  the  insubstantial  shadow  of 
a  dream,  as  it  were.  (Emptying  cup).  I  feel  bet 
ter!  Now  what  was  this  momentous  question? 
See  here,  Miss  Wouverman,  you  didn't  give  me 
my  wafer!  Where's  my  wafer?  I  want  my 
wafer!  Don't  a  fellow  get  a  wa 

JEANNE  (laughing).  Oh,  you  are  so  funny! 
Yes ;  do  have  a  wafer. 

BENNY  (helping  himself).  Now,  I'll  have  to 
have  another  cup  of  chocolate  to  take  with  my 
wafer.  Wafers  eaten  alone  and  singly  are  so 
sort  of  tame — don't  you  think  so?  Well!  what 
were  you  people  quarrelling  about  when  I  made 
my  entree?  Shaw's  latest? 

WINIFRED.  Have  you  seen  it?  What  do  you 
think  of  it? 


90 


BENNY.  You  ought  to  know,  Miss  Holloway, 
since  you  belong  to  the  profession,  that  the  opin 
ions  of  Benny  Benedict  on  subjects  musical  aad 
dramatic  are  expressed  only  through  the  col 
umns  of  the  Argus  at  ten  a  column. 

JEANNE.  Dear !  there  it  is  again !  Such  a  mer 
cenary  world.  I  hate  money!  (To  FLOYD- FAB 
IAN).  Don't  you? 

WINIFRED  (saving  the  painter  from  perjury}. 
Hate  money !  Of  course  he  doesn't.  Jeanne,  how 
perfectly  idiotic!  Still,  I  can  remember  when  I 
hated  money,  too, — or  thought  I  did. 

JEANNE  (passionately}.  I  don't  care!  I  do 
hate  it !  I'd  rather  live  on 

BENNY  (re-filling  his  cup}.  Chocolate  and 
salted  wafers 

JEANNE.     On  bread  and  water 

WINIFRED.  Nonsense,  my  dear!  Even  bread 
costs  money;  and  water — how  much  is  it  they 
charge  a  month  for  water?  We  just  can't  live 
without  money! 

(Enter  MR.  and  MRS.  JERROLD  WOUVERMAN.) 

JEANNE.  Oh,  here's  Jerry— and  Marion !  Good  ! 
Do  come  here  and  help  me  scold  these  sordid 
creatures. 

MR.    JERROLD   WOUVERMAN.      Sordid   creatures? 

JEANNE.  I  mean  Winifred  and  Mr.  Benedict,— 
for  I  still  insist  (turning  to  FLOYD- FABIAN,  and 
speaking  more  earnestly}  that  you  do  not  paint 
your  pictures  for  mere  money. 

BENNY.  He  don't?  .  .  .  Just  make  him  tell 
how  much  he  got  for  that  "Shepherd  and  Sheep" 
he  did  to  order  for  old  Mrs.  What's-her-name. 


91 


JEANNE  (warmly)-  That  has  nothing  to  do 
with  it!  Of  course  I  know  he  doesn't  give  his 
canvasses  away! 

BENNY.  Just  ask  him  why  he  paints  sheep  and 
sheep  and  more  sheep  instead  of  the  portraits 
he'd  rather  do!  Ask  him! 

JEANNE  (to  the  painter).  Would  you  rather  do 
portraits?  (Very  earnestly}.  Would  you? 

MRS.  JERROLD  WOUVERMAN  (laughing,  as  she 
pulls  off  her  gloves').  Look  at  Jeanne's  high- 
tragedy  expression!  Answer  her  quickly,  do! — 
and  relieve  this  strain;  I'm  beginning  to  feel 
wrought  up,  myself! 

FLOYD-FABIAN  (reluctantly}.  Well,  yes;  I'd 
rather  do  portraits.  Yes — candidly — I  would ;  but, 
you  see,  Miss  Wouverman,  people  don't  like  my 
portraits.  They're  not  sweetly  pretty  enough! 
And  they  do  like  my  sheep ;  I  have  orders  ahead 
for  sheep,  and — of  course 

JEANNE  (drearily}.  And  does  everyone  just 
grind  things  out  for  money — hideous  silver  dol 
lars  and  half-dollars  and  quarters?  (To  her 
brother}.  Are  they  all  alike,  Jerry?  Don't  laugh! 
Answer  me! 

JERRY.  Jeanne,  I  beg  of  you  not  to  be  so  in 
tense  ; — it's — it's  positively  uncomfortable  for  the 
rest  of  us!  All  alike?  Of  course  people  are  all 
alike !  We're  all  after  the  dollars,  whether  they're 
paper  or  silver  or  gold ! 

BENNY  (lifting  his  chocolate  cup}.  Here's  to 
the  omnipotent  dollar! 

WINIFRED  (touching  her  cup  to  his).  The  mod- 

92 


ern  open  sesame!  The  one  reality  in  a  world  of 
shams ! 

JEANNE  (turning  from  one  laughing  face  to 
another).  Will  none  of  you  be  serious?  I'm  in 
earnest — really  I 

WINIFRED  (mockingly).  "Thank  Heaven,  I've 
no  illusions  to  lose!"  Who  said  that,  Jeanne, 
dear? 

MRS.  WOUVERMAN  (as  JEANNE  turns  away  and 
walks  to  the  window  to  conceal  her  distress). 
Never  mind  the  child!  She'll  be  all  right  di 
rectly.  .  .  .  What  is  this  picture  of  yours  (to 
FLOYD- FABIAN,  who  is  looking  after  JEANNE)  that 
Mr.  Benedict  was  speaking  of?  Why  haven't  I 
seen  it? 

BENNY  (answering  for  the  painter,  who  is  still 
looking  toward  JEANNE  and  seems  scarcely  to 
hear  what  is  being  said) .  I'll  tell  you  why !  Old 
Mrs.  What's-her-name — Sessions —  is  it? — has  it 
hung  in  her  own  private  gallery;  and  she  don't 
mean  to  give  the  vulgar  public  a  sight  of  it.  Not 
after  she's  paid  her  money  for  it!  Not  she! 

WINIFRED.     Is  that  Jimmie's  mother? 

BENNY.  The  same !  Mrs.  James  Sessions, 
Senior,  wife  to  the  millionaire,  erstwhile  manu 
facturer  of  the  celebrated  brand  of  Sessions' 
Stomach  Bitters  mother  to  James,  Junior.  Now, 
there's  a  lucky  youth,  if  ever  one  lived.  Nothing 
to  do  but  play  the  howling  swell.  Don't  know 
what  care  means.  Don't  know  what  anything 
means,  for  that  matter!  Never  was  burdened 
with  an  idea  since  the  day  he  was  born;  needs 
a  fly  wheel,  though,  Jimmie  does!  (MRS.  WOUVER- 

93 


MAN  looks  anxiously  to  see  if  JEANNE  is  listen 
ing,  and  makes  gestures  to  silence  BENNY,  who 

goes  no  regardless}.  Makes  me  think  of  a 

(Enter  MR.  JAMES  SESSIONS,  JR.) 

WINIFRED.  Here's  Mr.  Sessions  now!  Just  as 
I  must  be  going.  And  he  looks  as  if  he'd  some 
thing  very  interesting  to  tell.  What  is  it  (rising) 
before  I  tear  myself  away? 

J.  S.  JR.  Oh,  now,  really  I  haven't  anything. 
I  just  thought  I'd  drop  in.  I  was  afraid  it  was 
too  late. 

MRS.  WOUVERMAN  (suavely) .  Never  too  late 
for  you,  Mr.  Sessions. 

JERRY  (cordially}.  Come  up  to  the  fire,  my 
boy,  do ! 

WINIFRED.  Late?  Is  it  late?  What  time  is  it? 
(Looks  over  BENNY'S  shoulder  while  he  opens 
his  watch).  Horrors!  Now,  Jeanne  (crossing 
to  window,  where  JEANNE  stands  ignoring  MR. 
SESSIONS'  presence)  you  see  what  your  chocolate 
has  done !  I'm  too  late  to  go  anywhere  else. 
(Throwing  off  hat).  Come  give  me  another  cup. 
I  shall  drown  remorse  in  a  regular  orgie.  This 
makes  my  seventh !  (Leads  JEANNE  to  table  and 
sinks  into  chair  beside  it).  Bring  me  a  cushion, 
Benny ! 

J.  S.  JR.  I  know  a  girl — a  little  soubrette — who 
drinks  eight  cups  every  afternoon. 

WINIFRED  (adjusting  her  cushion).  Is  she  cor 
pulent?  (Anxiously).  I'm  so  afraid  of  getting 
corpulent.  I  hate  a  fat  woman!  (To  JEANNE, 
who  hands  her  chocolate).  Thanks!  Do  sit 

94 


down,  Jeanne,  and  be  comfortable.     (JEANNE  sits 
down). 

BENNY.  Funniest  thing  how  all  the  actresses 
expand  after  a  couple  of  seasons — eh? 

J.  S.  JR.  Tis,  for  a  fact !  Take  that  little  girl 
at  the  Bijou.  She  was  as  light  as  a  fairy  two 
years  ago;  and  she  told  me  herself,  the  other  day, 
that  she  weighs  a  hundred  and  sixty,  now,  in  her 
— without  her — er — her  wraps;  says  her  neck's 
as  big  now  as  her  waist  used  to  be.  .  .  .  Pity, 
too!  Such  a  beauty! 

MRS.  WOUVERMAN.  I  saw  her  at  yesterday's 
matinee.  She's  lovely!  And  you  know  her?  How 
charming ! 

WINIFRED.  No  wonder  she's  getting  stout; 
they  say  she's  making  two  hundred  a  week.  Too 
much  prosperity! 

BENNY.     It's    the   same    way    with    the    society 
beauties.     Look  at  the  girl  that  rich  Dodderbeck 
married.     I  saw  her  in  her  box  at  the  Metropol 
itan  the  other  night;  she  made  me  think  of  Tenny 
son's  poem— what's  he  call  it?— The  Talking  Oak, 
"Alas,  I  was  so  broad  of  girth, 
I  could  not  be  embraced!" 
and  she  used  to  be  as  slim  as  the  ""fair  young 
beech"  in  the  next  verse. 

JERRY.     Hear  Benny  quote  ! 

J.  S.  JR.  Hard  luck  for  Dodderbeck,  wasn't 
it?  I  should  think  he'd  have  her  take  some 
thing,  or  do  something,  or — something. 

WINIFRED.  He  might  get  a  divorce ;  but  I  sup 
pose  he  doesn't  care  now.  They  say  he's  devoted 

95 


-(MRS.  WOUVERMAN  gives  her  a  warning  tap  on 
the  shoulder  and  looks  toward  JEANNE) — Oh,  of 
course!  Let's  talk  about  something  else! 

JEANNE.    Who  is  he  devoted  to? 

MRS.  WOUVERMAN  {after  an  awkward  silence). 
To  business,  dearie — of  course — devoted  to  bus 
iness, 

JEANNE.    Oh ! 

JERRY  (after  another  awkward  silence). — Er — 
(to  FLOYD-FABIAN).  Have  you  seen  our  latest 
acquisition  ? 

MRS.  WOUVERMAN  (rising). Oh,  yes,  Jerry,  we 
must  show  them!  It's  a  zarape — a  genuine  old 
Indian  zarape!  Let's  take  them  up  to  see 
it,  Jerry.  It's  so  lovely  just  where  it  hangs! 
Come  on  all  of  you!  (Leads  the  way).  We're 
awfully  proud  of  it!  (They  all  rise  but  JEANNE, 
who  sits  staring  into  the  fire).  Aren't  you  com 
ing,  Jeanne? 

JEANNE.  Oh,  I've  seen  it.  I  think  it's  horrid; 
so  coarse  and  glaring.  No;  I'll  stay  here.  (FLOYD- 
FABIAN  turns  back,  as  if  inclined  to  remain  with 
her)  I'm  tired. 

J.S.  JR.  Shall  I  stay  with  you?  (FLOYD-FAB 
IAN  joins  the  others,  who  follow  MRS.  WOUVER 
MAN). 

JEANNE  (impulsively).  No!  No!  (Coldly).  I 
don't  care,  I'm  sure.  (Politely).  If  you  like,  Mr. 
Sessions. 

(Exeunt  MR.  and  MRS.  WOUVERMAN,  FLOYD- 
FABIAN,  WINIFRED  and  BENNY  BENEDICT.  JEANNE 
still  gazes  into  the  fire.) 

J.   S.   JR.    (standing  with  his  hands  pocketed, 

96 


while  he  looks  down  upon  JEANNE).  Seems  to 
me  you  look  kind  of  down-in-the-mouth.  What 
are  you  mooning  about? 

JEANNE.  Mooning?  I'm  tired!  .  .  .  (trem 
ulously)  ...  I'm  thinking  how  hideous  and 
sordid  everything  is.  Nobody  seems  to  do  anything 
except  for  money.  Winifred's  verses  are  for  money, 
and  Mr.  Benedict's  articles,  and  Marion's  love- 
stories,  and  Jerry's  cases,  and — and  Floyd-Fab 
ian's  pictures.  (With  sudden  passion).  I  shall 
always  hate  Floyd- Fabian's  pictures  ! — sheep  and 
sheep  and  more  sheep — and  all  for  money! 

J.  S.  JR.  Why — er — I  don't  see  exactly — really 
now,  what  else  would  they  do  'em  for?  Eh? 
What  else,  now,  really? 

JEANNE.  No  one  sees !  No  one  feels  about  it 
as  I  do !  .  .  .  If  I  could  find  a  man  who  didn't 
work  for  mere  money — money  —  money — I'd 
marry  him  tomorrow! 

J.  S.  JR.   (breathlessly).    You — you  would? 

JEANNE.  Yes,  I  would!  I'm  sick  of  money! 
money !  money ! 

J.  S.  JR.  (earnestly).  See  here,  Jeanne.  I — I'm 
your  man,  if  you  mean  what  you  say! 

JEANNE  (laughing  scornfully).  You! — Why 
you're  a  half-millionaire! 

J.  S.  JR.  Oh,  well,  now,  that's  not  my  fault, 
J'eanne!  I — I  didn't  work  for  it — that's  what  we 
were  talking  about.  I  never  earned  a  cent  in  my 
life.  Never.  .  .  .  Look  here,  now! 

JEANNE.  Oh,  you  don't  understand.  (Desper 
ately).  Nobody  understands!  ...  Of  course 

97 


you  don't  work  for  money;  you  have  everything 
you  want  already. 

J.  S.  JR.  (trying  to  take  her  hand).  No  I 
haven't;  I  want  you!  I've  spoken  to  your 
brother.  He  says 

JEANNE  (wearily).  Oh,  Jerry  would  be  glad 
to  get  me  off  his  hands,  I  suppose.  It  takes  all 
he  can  earn  to  keep  them  going  and  pay  for 
Marion's  return  postage  stamps !  Jerry  would  be 
glad 

J.  S.  JR.  (modestly).  Well  he  did  seem— he 
said  he  thought  I  might  be  able  to  do  more  for 
you  than  he  ever  could,  and  that  sort  of  thing; 
and  of  course  I  could.  ...  I  would,  too, 
Jeanne ! 

JEANNE  (softly).    What  would  you  do  for  me? 

J.  S.  JR.  Everything!  I  can  afford  it!  I  sup 
pose  you  know — you  see  my  mother's  brother  has 
never  married,  and  I'm  the  only  nephew;  so  I've 
got  two 

JEANNE.  Oh,  I  didn't  mean  that!  I  don't  care 
for  that.  I  hate  money ! 

J.  S.  JR.  (persuasively).  Still,  really,  now,  it's 
not  a  bad  thing,  you  know.  It  comes  in  handy, 
once  in  a  while.  And  if  you  have  enough  of  it, 
you  never  have  to  think  of  it — and  I  didn't  work 
for  it.  .  .  Come,  now!  Don't  keep  me  in 
suspense ! 

JEANNE  (glancing  at  him  curiously).  Are  you 
in  suspense?  (After  a  pause).  Why  do  you 
want  to  marry  me?  .  .  .  (Suddenly).  Did 
you  ever  ask  anyone  else? 

98 


J.  S.  JR.  (decidedly).  Never!  (Growing  con 
fused,  as  she  looks  at  him).  .  .  .  Well— that 
is  to  say — perhaps,  one! 

JEANNE.    Who  was  it? 

J.  S.  JR.  She's  told  you  already.  .  .  .  Wini 
fred  Holloway.  ...  Is  that  why  you've  held 
me  off  so? 

JEANNE.  Winifred  Holloway !  And  she  refused 
you? 

J'.  S.  JR.  See  here,  Jeanne,  that's  all  over  now. 
I'm  glad  she  shook  me!  No  one  would  believe 
she'd  go  to  pieces  so  in  three  years. 

JEANNE   (shuddering).     Three  years. 

J.  S.  JR.  Besides,  she  never  compared  to  you, 
even  at  her  best.  (Getting  possession  of  her 
hand).  I  never  loved  any  girl  as  I  do  you. 

JEANNE  (bitterly).  Oh,  you  love  me?  You 
forgot  to  mention  that  before! 

J.  S.  JR.  Why  I  thought  I  had.  I  beg  your 
pardon,  I'm  sure.  See  here!  Don't  keep  me  on 
the  rack  this  way,  Jeanne!  A  girl  never  does 
find  just  exactly  what  she  wants. 

JEANNE.    No.    I  suppose  not. 

J.  S.  JR.  And  at  least  you  can't  accuse  me  of 
being  sordid,  like  Benedict  and  that  picture- 
dealer,  Fabian. 

JEANNE  (to  herself).  A  picture-dealer.  .  .  . 
that's  what  he  is  —just  that!  (To  J.  S.  JR.).  .  . 
What  would  you  do  if  I  should  get  stout,  like 
Dodderbeck's  wife? 

J.  S.  JR.  (disconcerted).  Stout?  (Rallying) 
Oh,  don't  suggest  such  a  thing;  you'll  never  get 
stout!  Hurry  up,  now,  Jeanne.  Let's  get  down 

99 


to    business.     I    want   your   answer.     Will    you 
marry  me? 

JEANNE.  "Get  down  to  business?"  How 
strangely  you  talk!  (Laughs  nervously).  Bus 
iness — business!  (Breaks  a  violet  from  its  stem 
and  tosses  it  away).  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do. 
(Rapidly).  You  go  bring  Jerry  here;  give  me  five 
minutes  alone,  and  then  come  back  with  him, 
and  (rising)  we'll  discuss  your  proposition;  (as 
MR.  SESSIONS  starts  to  go)  we'll  "get  down  to 
business." 

J.  S.  JR.  All  right!  (Complacently).  I  can 
count  on  Jerry.  I'll  be  back  in  five  minutes 
sharp ! 

(Exit  J.  S.  JR.  JEANNE  paces  slowly  the  length 
of  the  room;  stops  irresolutely,  then,  with  a  look 
of  passionate  renunciation,  unfastens  the  violets 
from  her  breast,  just  as  FLOYD-FABIAN  enters; 
and,  hurrying  back,  she  casts  them  despairingly 
into  the  fire. 

FLOYD-FABIAN.     My  violets ! 

(JEANNE  watches  the  flowers  blacken  and 
shrivel,  and  her  countenance  betrays  her  conflict 
ing  emotions.  Suddenly  her  purpose  fails.  With 
a  little  cry  she  kneels  upon  the  hearth  trying  to 
save  at  least  a  single  blossom  from  the  flames.) 

FLOYD-FABIAN.  Jeanne!  Jeanne!  (Pulling  her 
away  from  the  fire).  You  will  be  burned!  (Catch 
ing  her  hands).  You  are  burned.  (Kissing 
them).  Oh,  Jeanne! 

JEANNE  (turning  upon  him  furiously).  Let  me 
go! 

FLOYD-FABIAN.    Jeanne ! 

100 


JEANNE  (coldly).  I'm  not  hurt;  my  hands 
are  scorched  and  blackened — like  everything  else 
in  this  sordid  world — that  is  all!  Let  me  go! 
What  does  it  matter?  What  does  anything  mat 
ter?  Why  should  you  care? 

FLOYD- FABIAN.  Your  hands  (kissing  them 
passionately)  are  burned — blistered!  I  love  them; 
I  love  you!  Jeanne! 

JEANNE  (quivering  with  pain  and  excitement 
and  indignation).  Love?  .  .  .  You?.  (Con 
temptuously)  You  love?  No!  (He  releases 
her  hands,  and  they  stand  silent  for  an  instant 
*vhile  their  eyes  meet.  JEANNE  falters  and  turns 
uway).  I  (brokenly) — I  could  have  loved — 
(wildly),  Oh,  how  I  hate  all  this!  This  talk  of 
love  from  men — from  creatures  who  sell  their 
lives,  their  souls,  their  art  for  money — money — 
money!  (Facing  him  again,  with  the  breadth  of 
the  room  between  them).  I  could  have  loved  the 
man  I  thought  you  were! 

FLOYD- FABIAN.  The  man  you  thought — ? 
Jeanne,  tell  me  what  you  mean?  (Comprehend 
ing).  Jeanne  (exultantly),  with  you,  with  your 
love,  I  could  become  the  man  you  believed  me  to 
be — with  your  love  ! 

JEANNE  (almost  inaudibly).  You — you  could? 
(Wistfully).  You — you  think  you  could, — with 
my  love? 

FLOYD- FABIAN.  I  know  I  could!  (Opening 
his  arms).  Jeanne!  (JEANNE  Hies  to  his  em 
brace  .  .  .  Inarticulate  raptures  .  .  .  En 
ter,  exchanging  chuckles  of  satisfaction,  J.  S.  JR., 
and  MR.  JERROLD  WOUVERMAN). 

101 


J.  S.  JR.  Time's  up !  Here  we  are !  (Perceiv 
ing  the  lovers}  Eh?  (Smile  vanishes,  face 
lengthens).  Eh?  (Clutches  JERRY  with  one 
hand,  pointing  with  first  finger  of  the  other).  Eh? 

JERRY  (pointing  also).  Eh?  .  .  .  I — I  thought 
you — (approaching  them  furiously),  Jeanne  f 
(JEANNE  screams;  the  painter  starts'^  they  separ 
ate.)  What  does  this  mean? 

JEANNE  (laughing  and  crying  in  a  breath).  Oh, 
Jerry,  how  you  startled  me!  (Seeing  J.  S.  JR.). 
Oh,  Mr.  Sessions,  I— I  forgot— I  beg  your  par 
don — (in  great  confusion).  I  burnt  my  finger! 

JERRY  (wrathfully) .  You  burnt  your  finger?  And 
is  this  the  way  you 

J.  S.  JR.  (disconsolately).  I  thought  they  used 
soda  and  water  for  a  burnt  finger! 

JEANNE  (recovering  her  self-command).  Go 
get  me  some,  Jerry  dear — do!  It's  stinging 
dreadfully ! 

J.  S.  JR.  I  thought  I  was  to  bring  Jerry  here 
to— to — er — consider 

JEANNE  (quickly).  Your  business  proposition? 
.  .  .  I  have  decided,  after — after  reflection, 
Mr.  Sessions,  to — without  further  discussion,  if 
you  will  oblige  me,  Mr.  Sessions — to  decline 
your  proposition,  with  thanks.  Please  bring  me 
the  soda,  Jerry. 

(Exit  downcast,  MR.  JERROLD  WOUVERMAN. 
Enter  MRS.  W.,  WINIFRED  and  BENNY.) 

BENNY  (looking  from  one  to  another).  Why, 
what's  up?  What  makes  everybody  look  so— so 
sort  of  flurried? 

MRS.  WOUVERMAN.    Why,  where's  Jerry? 

102 


JEANNE.  He's  gone  for  some  soda  and  water. 
I 

FLOYD-FABIAN.  She  burned  her  hand,  and  Mr. 
Sessions  suggested  an  application  of  soda  and 
water 

MRS.  WOUVERMAN  (sweetly,  to  J.  S.  JR.).  So 
good  of  you ;  you  are  always  so  thoughtful ! 

J.  S.  JR.  (frigidly).  Well,  I  guess  I  may  as 
well  be  going.  Good  afternoon!  .  .  .  Good 
afternoon,  Miss  Wouverman. 

MRS.  WOUVERMAN.    Must  you  go?     So  soon! 

JEANNE.  Good  afternoon,  Mr.  Sessions.  (.Of 
fering  her  hand,  which  he  ignores).  Good-bye. 

CHORUS.  Good  afternoon,  Mr.  Sessions.  Good 
bye. 

(Exit,  sulkily,  MR.  JAMES   SESSIONS,  JR.) 

BENNY  (cheerfully).  Something  seems  to  have 
gone  wrong  with  gentle  James,  the  heir  to  the 
Sessions  million — No? 

MRS.  WOUVERMAN  (anxiously) .  I  do  hope  you 
weren't  rude  to  him,  Jeanne? 

JEANNE.    I  came  near  promising  to  marry  him. 

FLOYD-FABIAN.  But  she  promised  to  marry  me, 
instead. 

MRS.  WOUVERMAN   (incredulously).    What! 

WINIFRED.  So!  ...  Even  if  he  does 
paint  pretty  sheep  to  order  for  mere  money,  in 
stead  of  doing  plain  portraits  for  glory  and  a 
crust  of  bread.  Jeanne,  I'm  ashamed  of  you ! 

JEANNE  (radiantly).  Floyd-Fabian  has  immor 
talized  his  last  sheep.  (Giving  him,  her  hand). 
I'm  going  to  sit  for  my  plain  portrait  as  soon  as 
we  set  up  our  establishment  in  Bohemia. 

103 


BENNY  (administering  a  paternal  pat).  Good 
for  you!  I  approve  of  you.  (With  sudden  hi 
larity).  Hey,  O-hey,  for  Bohemia!  (To  Wini 
fred).  Let's  follow  their  example.  What  do 
you  say? 

WINIFRED  (merrily).  What  did  I  tell  you, 
Jeanne  ?  "  'The  curse  is  come  upon  me !'  cried  the 
Lady  of  Shalott!"  Just  when  I  might  have  caught 
the  heart  of  gentle  James  on  the  rebound,  too! 
Benny,  you're  irresistible!  I  am  thine!  Con 
gratulate  us,  Mrs.  Wouverman! 

FLOYD-FABIAN  (leading  JEANNE  to  her  sister-in- 
law).  Congratulate  us! 

MRS.  WOUVERMAN  (with  emphatic  disapproval). 
No!  Perfect  nonsense!  Utter  folly!  Child's- 
play! 

WINIFRED  (gaily).  This  from  the  author  of 
"Blended  Hearts,"  "All  For  Love,"  et  cetera,  et 
cetera?  Can  I  believe  my  ears? 

MRS.  WOUVERMAN.  Blended  hearts  are  all  very 
well  in  a  love  story  for  a  magazine;  but  this  is 
real  life.  Too  bad! 

BENNY  (trips  with  Winifred  to  position  beside 
the  painter  and  JEANNE;  they  all  assume  attitudes 
of  supplication).  Don't  be  cross!  (coaxingly}. 
What  if  it  is  absurd?  We  like  it! 

MRS.  WOUVERMAN.  I  don't  like  it!  It's  dread 
ful!  ...  I  shall  leave  the  room!  I  wish 
Jerry  would  come ! 

(MRS.  WOUVERMAN  starts  to  go;  they  join 
hands  and  surround  her.  She  continues  to  frown 
and  shake  her  head,  while  they  circle  about  her. 
Enter,  with  melancholy  stamped  upon  his  counte- 

104 


nance,  MR.  JERROLD  WOUVERMAN,  carrying  an  open 
package  of  soda  and  a  glass  of  water.) 

JERRY  (stopping  at  C).  What's  this?  (Glar 
ing.) 

MRS.  WOUVERMAN  (plaintively).  I  can't  help 
it,  Jerry  dear!  They  won't  let  me  out! 

BENNY  (pulling  them  about  more  madly  than 
ever).  Ring  around  a  rosy.  Hey!  O-hey,  for 
Bohemia!  Relent,  Mrs.  Wouverman! 

THE  OTHERS.  Hey!  O-hey!  Relent!  Ring 
around  a  rosy! 

MRS.  WOUVERMAN  (beginning  to  smile).  This 
is  too  ridiculous! 

JERRY  (still  standing  stiffly  holding  the  soda  in 
one  hand  and  the  water  in  the  other).  Marion 
Wouverman,  why  do  you  tolerate  such  nonsense? 

(MRS  WOUVERMAN  laughs  wildly,  breaks 
through  the  rotating  circle,  almost  upsetting 
BENNY;  and,  disregarding  danger  from  soda  and 
water,  throws  herself  upon  her  astonished  hus 
band's  breast.) 

MRS.  WOUVERMAN  (hysterically).  O-ooo-h, 
J^rry ! 

JERRY.    Marion ! 

MRS.  WOUVERMAN  (between  laughter  and 
tears).  Oh,  Jerry  dear,  I  know  it's  all  wrong — 
forgive  me! — and  silly,  and — and  unpractical,  and 
everything,  but  they  are  so  happy!  Let  us  be 
happy,  too! 

TABLEAU — VIVANT   .  CURTAIN. 


105 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 
LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


REC'D  LD 

APR    9  /959 


LD  21A-50m-9,'58 
(6889slO)476B 


General  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 


.,>WEJ 


IFOSSSU 


Y'A  02D99 


